Thursday's Child
by Sonnenkoenigen
Summary: Abandoned in India by General Cross, Allen makes his way through South Asia and Europe in search of the Black Order Headquarters.
1. Down Among the Living

**Author's note: **

This is essentially a prologue to The Book of Vices and Virtues, and as such makes references to it. I hope this isn't confusing for those who haven't read it and don't want to. If I did this right, it should stand on its own, so I hope I did it right.

This story refers to and quotes several other sources. The references and quotes are not, in most cases, directly attributed, but are added in such a way that someone familiar with the source would recognize them. Except for DGM and Reverse 3, the sources are all out of copyright, if they were copyrighted in the first place. Knowing what they are isn't necessary to understanding the story itself-or at least it shouldn't be-but for those who are curious, there's a list in my profile.

I do not own DGM. I'm just an addict.

Any time a work is translated, there are sacrifices. I don't know why the decision was made to not translate the word "akuma", but in doing so, a lot of potential wordplay was lost. In order to regain that, I chose to translate "akuma" as Demon, capitalizing it to distinguish it from the kind of demon not made by the Earl. In doing so, I undoubtedly lost whatever was gained in not translating that word, but that's how translation goes. You win some; you lose some.

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**Down Among the Living**

"Hey there, boy!" The smiling man said in Hindi. "Maybe you're not so pretty, eh, but I bet you could still show me a good time!"

The boy raised his left hand to lift his hair off his forehead. "Still want a piece of this, old man?" he asked in Hindi.

The man paled, made a sign against evil, and fled.

The boy watched him go, a wry smile on his face.

Allen Walker woke up the previous afternoon with a splitting headache and a nasty bump on the side of his head, the result of one of his Master's more spectacular exits. Sitting up made him feel like retching, so he waited for a few minutes, resisting the temptation to curl up on the floor and sleep it off. He knew better. Instead, he eased himself up in stages, breathing slowly, trying to ride the pain and dizziness like waves.

Once upright, he spent a few minutes trying not to cry. He had no reason to. His head hurt, he was stranded in India with God knew how much debt, and he was supposed to find a place he'd been told was well-hidden, probably somewhere in Europe. Considering that he couldn't find his way out of a potato sack, this was a serious problem, but this wasn't the worst jam he'd ever been in. The best part was that his Master was gone, probably for a while this time, but fuck his head hurt! He poked at the lump, felt the thick, sticky glue of drying blood, and gave in to the tears. It wasn't like anyone was going to see them.

When he was a child, he cried a lot, mostly out of rage or fear. When he traveled with Mana, he rarely cried, but he had little reason to.

Then Mana died, and all Allen could do was cry. The world seemed to hurt more, but if he tried to push it away, he found himself losing Mana, and he didn't want to let go of the one good thing he'd been allowed to keep for a while. If it meant that he cried, then he cried. Cross made fun of him, but Mana used to hold him and say kind things until he stopped, so he wrapped that memory around him, listening to those gentle words, even though it meant living through it instead of making it stop. If he made it stop, he might never hear Mana again.

When the worst of it had passed, he checked his pockets. Empty, but that was no surprise. Every time his Master pulled one of his disappearing acts, the first thing he did was rob his apprentice. Fortunately, Allen had gotten good at hiding things. A quick search revealed empty bottles, dirty dishes, a torn shirt, mismatched socks, an empty cigarette lighter, several overflowing ashtrays, cheap silver beads, and about thirty pounds his Master had missed. The lighter would be useful if it was refilled, and the money was enough to get him into a game, which would be enough for food and maybe to pay off a few people, at least the ones he wanted to be on speaking terms with if he ever came to Madras again. He'd learned which bridges he couldn't afford to burn.

The following morning found him up before sunrise. The night hadn't ended on too bad of a note, but he'd learned that it was best for him to leave town before those he played poker with sobered up, so he was sharing the street with drunks, older prostitutes, waste collectors and those unfortunate enough to have come out disappointed in their search for evening companionship. The latter tended to mistake him for a pretentious street hustler, overdressing to compensate for his bizarre looks, and the idea was not just to get a few cheap minutes in an alley, but to cut him down to size in the process. That was his third proposition in less than half an hour, and the most polite of the three.

Even before he could move his arm, he learned how to use it as a defense against unwanted attention. It wasn't an ordinary deformity, not a twisted arm but the arm of something that wasn't human, as if the devil had grafted part of himself to a child, so disturbing that they couldn't even put him on display with the rest of the freaks. He made people sick in a way they didn't want to pay for. He wore his mitten, but everyone in the circus knew what was underneath it, and nobody wanted to touch him except to hit him, perhaps hoping he would die but too afraid to kill him outright for fear of diabolical retribution. It didn't help that he had the temper of a pit viper, prone to lashing out if anyone got too close, as if his arm wasn't the only thing the devil had given him.

There were other children, though, uncontaminated and more tractable. It wasn't the sounds those children made, it was their resigned silence combined with the otherworldly grunts of the men who used them when they were near whatever box or cage Allen had been locked into for the night. He lay shaking, his eyes squeezed shut, biting his hand to smother his sobs of relief and guilt, thinking that yes, if he could get out, he would kill them, every last one of them, before killing himself.

Shit! He took a deep breath, blew it out in time to his footsteps. Breathe. Just breathe. Let it in. Let it through. Let it go. Keep walking. Always, walk, because if he kept walking, he could move through it without forgetting, without panicking, without losing it or himself or Mana completely.

"With a face like that, there'll be a discount, eh?"

A fellow Englishman this time. Allen offered his left hand, and let himself enjoy the spluttered curses.

Since Mana died, he'd acquired his hair and his scar on top of his arm, which made him more grotesque than before. He'd also learned to get his temper under control, but without his rage he became an object of pity, which only twisted the knife. Maybe they were nothing to be proud of, but he'd earned every single one of his deformities. A pity fuck was an insult.

_A pity fuck is still a fuck._

Allen sighed. He'd been traveling with Marion Cross for so long and had put so much effort into learning the man's moods that it was as if his Master had taken up residence in his head. _I'm not a goat!_

_No. Goats have more fun._

_I don't want to be like you!_ Allen thought it with such vehemence that he nearly said it out loud.

_I don't think you're going to enjoy the alternative very much._

_So what, there are only two options here? Be like you, or be whatever you think is the opposite of you?_

_You're an Exorcist now, brat. There is no good option, so you might as well get in whatever fun you can._

_Piss off, will you? _Allen thought savagely,then something hit him across the shins.

He stumbled, recovered, and realized that he'd just tripped over a person. "I'm so sorry!" he said in Hindi.

The response was a whimper of fear, and he looked down to see two drab forms kneeling at his feet, an old woman and a girl.

His body remembered that posture well, the curling of ribs and limbs over delicate internal organs, and he dropped down to reassure them. This close, it was clear that the old woman wasn't old after all, just exhausted and battered. The girl was probably her daughter. They were street cleaners, born without caste and condemned to spend their lives handling the filth that respectable society didn't want to touch. Allen had seen them on the periphery of life, drying dung for fuel, removing bodies, scavenging through rubbish, and cleaning the streets in the dark wee hours, sweeping away their footsteps as they went.

He reached out to the woman, but they both flinched so he drew his hand back. "I'm so sorry," he said in Hindi, praying she understood. India had a handful of languages, of which he only spoke two. "I hope I didn't hurt you."

She looked at his hand, then at his face, and gasped before prostrating herself again, trembling. "Shiva!"

"What?" Allen rocked back on his heels, wondering if she was insane.

"Lord Shiva, you have returned!"

Allen looked wildly at the girl, wondering what he should do. "Will she be all right?" he asked.

The girl nodded, still looking at the ground. "My mother gets visions," she whispered. "Please forgive her!"

"Okay" Allen said, but every hair on his body was standing on end.

"My visions are true," the woman said, looking up, and her eyes reminded him of Mana's during those times when he seemed to slip off the edge of the world. "Your eye is the eye of Shiva, which discerns good from evil, and your hand is the hand of Shiva, which destroys evil."

The earth spun under Allen's feet, and he had to catch himself to keep from falling. It was as if she was looking straight into his heart, where the souls of Demons were more real than the souls of the living, and he wasn't sure he could stand what she saw.

"Mama, please!" the girl pleaded, tugging at her mother's arm. "Please, let's go! Please!"

"But remember that what Shiva destroys, he destroys in order to save," the mother continued. "Do not crush everything in your path."

"I…don't…I can't, I…" Allen stammered. It was as if the colors of the world had reversed, black to white, red to green, blue to orange, yellow to purple, and he couldn't seem to get his bearings in this place.

"Thank you, my lord, for returning to this world." The mother pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall loose. It was surprisingly clean, cleaner than her clothes. Then she pulled a small leather flask from inside her robes and poured water onto his shoes, wiping them dry with her hair.

"Please!" Allen gasped. "That's not…you shouldn't…Please!" She wasn't allowed to draw water from the public wells. That flask was probably all she had until she got home.

"So that the dust of our presence doesn't follow you on your journey," she said.

"It's not…it's all right, I don't…" He didn't deserve this, especially not from one who had so much less than he did.

"I'm so sorry," the girl said, her voice thick with tears. "Please, I'm sorry! She doesn't mean it!"

It was the daughter's terrified sobs that made him pull himself together, and he reached out with his right hand, wiping her tears from her cheek. "It's all right, little sister. It's really all right. I'm not angry. I'm not going to hurt you."

For the first time, the girl looked at his face, then she gasped, clapping both hands over her mouth.

Allen smiled. "That's right, I'm already cursed. She hasn't offended me." Allen reached into his pocket and pulled out a few rupees, as many as he could give them without getting them into trouble, and he pressed them into the girl's hand even as he raged inside at the futility of the gesture. They would eat better for a few days, but that was all that would change, and there was nothing else he could do. He could cleans himself of the Demon blood virus, but he could not cleanse them of their caste.

Why was it that the only person he could ever save was himself?

_Breathe, _he thought, _as if you were walking. And for God's sake don't start crying in front of them! You'll scare them even more! _

He looked at the girl, who was staring at him, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

The girl nodded, silent but no longer crying.

"Goodbye," he said, rising. These two were like his memories. He couldn't change them, but he couldn't shut them out, and he needed to get moving so he could deal with it.

_Mana, did I do the right thing? _he asked as they went back to their work, talking together in hushed tones.

_Of course not, idiot! _said a voice that was definitely not Mana's. _You should have ignored them. It would have made everyone's day a little easier._

_I didn't ask you! _

"Hey, pretty boy, how about…" a voice said from behind as fingers drifted low over his backside.

"Goddamn it!" Allen's left hand shot out, grabbing the offender by the wrist.

The man looked at the red, twisted hand, the embedded cross glowing its unearthly green, then at Allen's face, and spat.

Allen let go and wiped the slime off his cheek. This, too, was nothing new, and he took a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that the thought of his hand touching the man's flesh would linger much longer than the spit. "Next time, look before you touch," he said. "You might not like what you see." Then, setting his back to the first whispers of the rising sun, he walked.


	2. In the House of the Lord

**Author's notes:** GreenGreyBlue, thanks for reviewing. I hope this doesn't disappoint!

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**In the House of the Lord**

Allen walked, head-down, the scarf tied around his hair the same color as the hair itself, which in turn was the same color as his shirt, all of which were the same color as the road. His suitcase was strapped to his back to keep it from weighing on his arms, and he had a haversack slung over his shoulder, carrying as much food as possible. He might be able to buy more along the way, but he couldn't count on much, and it meant he was always hungry. He was always thirsty, too. Timcanpy lay tucked under his collar, tail wrapped around the back of his neck, a small, steady comfort on what he knew when he started would be a hard, dangerous road.

It was dangerous, but it wasn't deserted. This was part of the Silk Road, the ancient network of trade routes that connected East and West, and caravans still wound their way through it, as did travelers like him. Tribes of nomads moved at the pace of the children clustered near women who held their head scarves over their faces while balancing babies on their hips, all under the watchful eye of men with rifles on their backs. Soldiers came through, the robed and turbaned tribesmen of Amir Abdur Rahman Kahn, who controlled the territory west of the Durand Line. The landscape was barren, mostly rocks, scrub and scrawny trees, the road twisting its way through the mountains, detouring around small peaks and contorting itself into switchbacks when the going got steep.

There were sounds of discord, and he raised his head to see what appeared to be a collision between a caravan and a group of soldiers. There wasn't much road at that point, and they were taking up all of it, so Allen stopped, glad for an excuse to rest. He'd move on when they sorted it out.

Over the chaos, he heard a high scream, then a second cry, a thin, metallic wail. The men stopped arguing and looked around wildly, making whatever holy signs they knew, but Allen's blood surged. He knew exactly what that second cry was. His weapon knew, too, and the cross in his hand hummed with killing glee as it flared to life.

He left the road at a run, scrambling up and around a low peak until he saw the great, bulbous shape silhouetted over a small hut. Whoever screamed was probably trapped inside, if they weren't dead already, but it didn't matter. All Allen could see was the chained soul of a man crying out in agony, and he was overcome with the desire to set it free. If he could get in there, if he could break that chain, yes, this was what he lived for, all he lived for and ever would.

The Demon fired, and Allen raised his arm, letting it deflect the first volley before closing the space between them as the thing reloaded. He didn't have much time, but his activated weapon filled his whole body with strength and energy, and as he heard the telltale cascade of clicks, he rolled forward, letting the bullets fly over him. His arm reached out, tearing a chunk out of the unwieldy body, taking some of the guns with it, and the Demon let out another cry as it prepared to fire again, this time with the focus of something fighting for its life.

Allen leaped, landing on one of the protruding guns. The Demon looked at him, its eyes wide with mindless terror as Allen's arm dug in for the second time. "Easy!" Allen said as he felt metal bones crumble in his fingers. "It's almost over. You're going to be all right."

It froze as if uncertain what to do. It couldn't shoot something that was sitting on it, and it didn't seem to know how to shake him off. Didn't matter. Allen felt his claw hook on a link in that chain and gave a tremendous pull. The resulting explosion threw him back to the ground, and the freed soul let out a sigh like a great wind, looking down at Allen with a tear-stained face as it faded into the afternoon sun.

Allen turned his attention to the hut. It was really a lean-to made of branches and hangings propped up against the side of the mountain, hardly any shelter at all, with a small heap of stones not far from the door. It was a hell of a place to try to eke out a living, and Allen couldn't imagine who would try.

He caught the smell even before he reached the hut, and when he pulled the curtain aside, he reeled back a step. The place reeked of urine, so strongly that he held the door open for a minute before he went in, and he only went in because Timcanpy already had. At first he thought the place was abandoned, in spite of what he was sure had been a human scream. There was no furniture, only a bowl, an empty jar, and a pile of rags in the corner that Tim was flying circles over.

Horror flooded the pit of his stomach when he realized that the pile of rags was a person, and he dashed forward, dropping to his knees in front of them. Whoever it was, they'd been sitting in their own waste for some time, and the stench wafted thick off the unmoving body. Even in this place, the figure's head was wrapped in a dirty scarf, but she didn't protest when he brushed it away. One look at her told him that she was probably too far gone to care. She was unconscious and her pulse was weak, but she was still breathing.

"Hey!" he said, shaking her gently. The shoulder he held was bone-thin. "Can you hear me?"

He repeated the same phrase in Russian, Punjabi and Hindi, throwing in a hello in Dari for good measure even though that was about all the Dari he knew, but the figure didn't answer. He pulled out his canteen and held it to her lips, but they didn't open, not even when the trickle of water hit her mouth. "Come on, come on, damn it!" he said, but there was no response.

Now what? Maybe those squabbling idiots on the road would help him, if they were still there after all this racket, but most likely they wouldn't think her worth bothering with. What medical supplies he carried were intended for treating wounds, not for something like this. He didn't even have laudanum.

Although he knew it would mortify her if she woke up, he pulled out his pocket knife and began to cut her clothes away, unwilling to move her enough to undress her but hoping there would be some clue on her body, a deformity, an injury, maybe a bite mark from something venomous.

_Bet whatever it is, it's contagious and they find you by the roadside in about a week_, said a leering voice in his head.

_Shut the bloody fuck up, Master! _he thought. _She needs help! Can't you see that?_

The first thing he found was that she was barely old enough to have her head covered, her body still caught up in the transition between girl and woman. She was so thin it was hard to be sure, but he guessed she was younger than he was, and he wondered what she was doing out there all alone. She was emaciated, probably starving to death, and the shock of the Demon attack was going to finish her off if he didn't do something.

When he cut away her skirt, he had to cover his mouth to keep from throwing up, then he had to take a few breaths to collect himself before looking again. The skin on the insides of her thighs had been eaten through, the angry rash extending almost halfway to her knees.

As he looked at the raw mess, he started to cry, and as it all came together, the tears turned to sobs. He covered her again, shed his bags and, setting his back to the cold rock wall, he lifted her head into his lap. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry!" he said, stroking her hair through her scarf. "I'm so sorry!"

He had seen women like this begging on isolated roadsides, steeped in the smell of their own waste. His Master had explained that it was an injury from spending too much time in labor, that the trapped heads of their babies had pressed down on their tissues so hard and for so long that a hole formed between the bladder and birth canal. Urine leaked continuously through that hole, eating away at their skin, leaving them invalid from pain and outcast by the smell. Women whose families had some means could try a surgeon, who could sometimes repair it. Other families would isolate such a woman in her home or send her to a convent hospital, but the poor were left to beg, as this girl had been. Sometimes the babies survived, but usually they suffocated. That little cairn in front of the hut was probably her child's grave.

Allen had never seen the injuries before because they were too intimate, but it looked so miserable. He wished again that he had laudanum to ease the pain, or that he could take her to a surgeon, but he never carried any form of opium and she wouldn't survive the trip to Kabul.

Who had that Demon been? Someone angry with her? Someone who loved her? Or just someone who knew that she was easy prey?

He sat cradling her until hunger began to overwhelm him, but even then he decided he'd rather eat with that stench than leave her even for a few minutes. She was nearly gone, and he didn't want her to die alone. He held his breath as much as he could, which robbed his food of what little taste it had, but he didn't think he would have tasted it anyway. He felt awful not sharing with her and he tried, but she didn't even have the strength to drink. It was all she could do to breathe.

When he finished, he sang quietly to her, cycling through every song he knew no matter how bawdy or foolish, until the sun went down and he fell asleep.

He started awake in the wee hours, and at first he couldn't figure out why. Nothing was moving or making a sound, not even Tim, who nestled quietly in the hollow between his neck and his shoulder. Then he realized that this was what had woken him, the unnatural stillness of the body he held. He rested his fingers on her throat, but there was no pulse and her skin was cold. She was gone.

"Why?" he whispered to the moonlit air.

_Because this is how the world works._ The voice of his Master was quieter than usual, if no less callous.

_But why? If she'd been a little older, she might have made it._

_Or she might not have. Women are injured or even die in childbirth no matter how old they are. It's a fact of life._

_It isn't fair!_ New tears prickled in Allen's eyes. _She was just a kid!_

_Life's not fair, and you can't make it fair, so there's no sense in whining about it._

_Shut up! Just shut up! _Allen let himself break down because although it made him feel like shit, it also made his Master's voice irrelevant.

By the time the tears stopped, his head was clear. There was no one to be angry with, no one to grieve with, no possibility of retribution or condolences. Maybe her family had married her off too young to a heartless husband, but she might have been in love with her baby's father, or she might have been raped. Maybe someone built this hut to ease their conscience about throwing her away, or maybe she built it out of her only belongings, but maybe it had been built out of love by someone whose heart broke to leave her behind. He would never know, could never know, but even if he did, it wouldn't help her. She was all that he had in front of him, and everything he did had to be for her alone.

He could have used his weapon to dig a grave, but it didn't seem like enough. He thought she deserved something more than an unmarked hole in the ground so far from the road.

He thought for a while, then set her down and ripped every bit of wood from the hut before going outside. The moon shining in that high, clear air gave him enough light to gather dried grasses, brush, branches, everything flammable the mountain could give him, and he piled it all up where the hut had been. When he bent down to lift her, he was stunned at how light she was, like the dust to which she was returning.

He laid her carefully on his makeshift pyre, folding her hands across her chest, and covered her with the curtain she'd once used for a door. Then he pulled out his Master's cigarette lighter and lit the dried weeds, sheltering and blowing on the little flame until it caught.

As the blaze began to lick at the wood, he stepped back, thinking. He should say something, but what? He didn't even know her name, much less anything about her, and he couldn't remember what else they said at funerals.

Then fragments of verse came to him, lines he'd heard sung in churches in many languages when he and Mana sat on the steps, not begging, not really, although they wouldn't turn down a few coins if they were offered, just resting and listening to the choir. He didn't remember any of the melodies, but over time the words had formed into a coherent whole in his mind, as if they were pieces of a puzzle.

_The Lord is my shepherd_  
_I shall not want._  
_He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,_  
_He leadeth me beside the still waters,_  
_He restoreth my soul,_  
_He leadeth me in the path of righteousness for His name's sake._  
_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil,_  
_For Thou art with me,_  
_Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me._  
_Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies._  
_Thou anointest my head with oil_  
_My cup runneth over._  
_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,_  
_And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever._

He watched until the smell of roasting flesh began to fill the air, then he turned and made his way back to the road.


	3. Adhan

**Author's notes:** Thank you, sammi117 and GreenGreyBlue for your reviews. I don't get many review, so I really appreciate the ones I do get.

Sammi117, I'm so glad my Allen seems real to you. I'm working very hard on that.

GreenGreyBlue, boy do you ever have me pegged! You're right. Allen's list did not come out of thin air, and you're going to see a good deal of it in this story. I think the only break I cut him is Serbia, and I'm not sure how much of a break that really is. It's good to know that my descriptions are useful, because they're the hardest thing for me to write.

As far as the chapter itself is concerned, there's a bit of AllenXOC here.

**Adhan**

"_Allaaaaaahuaaaaakbar aaaaaaaauaaaaaah! Allaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaukbar aaaaaauah_!"

Allen had heard that sound many times, but even so, he lingered on the street, listening. The Muezzin was exceptional, his melodic voice turning the call to prayer into a hymn. In smaller towns, the world would stop for a little while as people obeyed that call, but not here. Although things quieted down, in a city as large and cosmopolitan as Tabriz, there were still a few people on the street.

Allen looked up at the dome of the mosque, moved by that call in the same way he was moved by church bells. He wasn't exactly what one would call a devout Christian, much less Muslim, but the sounds reminded him that every once in a while, people were asked to stop what they were doing and think outside themselves. They didn't always do it. He didn't always do it, but he liked the reminder.

That day, he stopped. He didn't go in because he would be an intruder, but he stood gazing at the golden-brown sandstone edifice, perhaps not as ornate as some of the bigger mosques, but lovingly maintained, with the carved patterns in the new-looking entryway matching the ancient brickwork of the turrets. No matter how hard man or nature tried to tear it down, and both had tried, someone eventually rebuilt it. It wasn't exactly the same building as it was three hundred years ago, but it was still sacred, and still beautiful.

When people began to spill back out onto the street, he turned to go.

"Allen? Allen Walker?"

At the sound of his name, Allen turned, then he broke into a wide grin, throwing himself into a pair of open arms. "Zemar!" They kissed each other on both cheeks, an accepted greeting between men in that part of the world, although perhaps it lingered more than was strictly proper. Zemar smelled like nutmeg and cardamon, and it took every ounce of willpower Allen had to step back. "What are you doing here?" he said. "I looked for you in Kabul, but you weren't there."

"We were in Moscow. I'm going home now." They had not let go of each other's shoulders, and neither of them could seem to stop smiling. "What about you? What on earth are you doing here?"

"I'm heading for Europe, looking for the Black Order Headquarters," Allen said. They spoke Russian together, as it was their most mutually fluent common language. Zemar knew some English, but not enough to converse in it, and Allen knew no Pashto at all.

"Looking for it? Doesn't your Master know where it is."

"He does, but he left in India, so I have to find it by myself."

"Wait, he left? You're on your own?"

"Yes. For now, anyway."

Zemar's smile widened. "Excellent! Does that mean you have time for a cup of coffee?"

"Of course!" He would always have time for Zemar. "When?"

"Right now, if you're free."

"Absolutely!" Allen said.

"I'm not buying you food, though," Zemar warned. "I can't afford it."

"I just ate lunch, so don't worry about it," Allen said.

"Good. You have the worst table manners of any Englishman I've ever known."

"I have to eat fast," Allen said.

"That's because you eat so much." Zemar threw an arm around Allen's shoulder. "There's a coffee house near my hotel. We'll go there."

At seventeen, Zemar was a good three inches taller than Allen, and what had once been an ethereal childhood beauty was maturing into something surprisingly rugged. What held Allen's eye, though, were the traces of new beard that darkened Zemar's upper lip and patches of his jaw. He hadn't had that before, but his patron had always insisted that he shave.

The coffee house had high tin ceilings and elaborately carved panels on the walls. A fountain murmured in the center of the room, and the light streaming in through great, arched windows made patterns in the smoke from long pipes and hookahs. There were no tables, only upholstered benches along the walls, most of them occupied by robed, bearded men in turbans who looked at Allen curiously before going back to talking or playing backgammon and ignoring the poet on the dais in the corner, who Zemar said was political and not very good. Zemar paid the old man who guarded the urn, and they took their cups to a corner near a window.

"Where is Rastin?" Allen asked as they took off their shoes and sat facing each other. Zemar had never been this free with his time before.

"He went home early. I did well enough in Russia so that he left me to finish up." There was a forced lightness in Zemar's voice. "I'll be taking over that part of the business soon."

"So he's following through." Allen said, glad to hear that but troubled by Zemar's tone.

"Yes. My signature is on the papers, next to Rastin's of course, but next year it will be mine alone."

"That's good! So what will you do when you get home?" Would he have to shave again?

"It looks like I'll be getting married." Zemar grinned, and Allen had a feeling that he'd waited for just the right moment to announce it, the moment when it would have the most shock value.

"Married!" Allen said, letting his surprise show for Zemar's amusement. "When was this arranged?"

"Rastin's been negotiating it for some time. I found out when he left me in Russia. Apparently, it's my reward for doing well there."

"What's she like?" That could be a reward, but it could also be a new kind of bondage.

"I have no idea. I'm told she's an agreeable girl from a good family, but that's what they always say. Most likely, she comes from a family with ambition far above their station but daughters whose beauty is somewhat short of extraordinary. Otherwise, they'd marry her to a son, not to someone like me. I'm to meet her as soon as I get home, but unless we don't get along at all, I'll probably go through with it. Although I have bad news for you," he said, staring into his coffee.

"What?" Allen asked, a knot forming in his chest.

Zemar looked at him, his eyes apprehensive. "I almost hoped I wouldn't see you again. I never thought I'd be forsworn for any reason, but I don't know what else to do. I must break our promise. I'm sorry."

Allen's heart dropped into his stomach. Some months earlier, when Allen's Master tossed him a razor and told him to try not to cut his nose off, Allen had been secretly jubilant. Now, he wasn't sure he could breathe.

But Zemar considered his promises sacred. Breaking one, especially this one, was not something he'd do lightly. "Why?" Allen asked, fighting to keep the pain out of his voice.

The guilt in Zemar's eyes told him that he had not succeeded. "I am going to end the old tradition. Even in my situation, which is good as such go, I…" Zemar trailed off, looking out at the street, and Allen did, too, thinking of how normal the world could seem while inside, everything changed.

"You must have guessed from my beard that Rastin has found another boy," Zemar said. "I knew that someday I'd be replaced, just as I replaced another, but a bond forms whether you want it to or not. Ever since I was sold, I have looked forward to this day, but now that it's here..."

He set his cup on the windowsill and sat, his head bowed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then he swallowed before he spoke again. "I understood that part of my price was a better life, and a chance at a better future than my parents could give me. They had nothing, Allen, less than nothing. I was begging in the streets, and if I came home empty-handed, I was beaten until I could not move, so when they sold me, I was happy. I would be warm and fed, and I would have to endure less than I was already. All I had to do was learn to dance."

Allen had heard this before, but there was something new in Zemar's tone, a rage and despair that perhaps he had not allowed himself before.

"I spent five years keeping Rastin company, and dancing for him and his friends. Everything I did, I did for him him, and in return he fed me, clothed me, educated me, gave me a place in the business, found me a bride. Everything I have, I owe to Rastin, but for all he's done for me, I feel like a discarded toy, something too used to play with anymore. I wonder all the time if perhaps I belong back on the streets, if I deserve a living, a wife, to grow my beard or to pray in the mosques as if I were a decent man. No matter how often or how carefully I bathe, I cannot feel clean."

Zemar's voice caught, and Allen waited.

"Part of me wants to throw it all back into his face, but where would I go? What else would I do? I have no home, no family to go back to. And this new boy, he's only a few months younger than I was when I was sold, but I was shocked to see that he's just a child. He doesn't understand that over time, gratitude and obedience can become devotion. Rastin didn't just buy my body, he bought my heart, and I didn't know until it was broken."

Zemar took a deep breath and looked up, his eyes overly bright. "I have decided to be a proper husband. Maybe it won't work. Maybe men and women cannot get along. Maybe she won't like me, or she'll be too ashamed of what I was and will reject me. If that happens, I will have to find someone on my own, and it won't be easy, but…"

He hesitated, and Allen waited for him again.

"In Europe, where women go about with their hair uncovered and their dresses fit so close to their bodies, I felt like a starving man bound and gagged in the middle of a great banquet. At first, I wanted to kill someone, but then I thought, maybe this is a good thing, that I want these women so much. Maybe if I like this girl, I could be happy with that. But even if I don't like her or she doesn't like me, I do not want to do to another child what was done to me. I know that you are not a child," he added quickly. "It's just that if I'm going to do this, I think it's better if I do not know what it's like. They say that women are not always accommodating, and if that happens, I do not want to start thinking about boys."

This time, Allen broke the silence. "I release you," he said. Whatever his personal regrets, he'd seen enough to know that sometimes the best thing to do was to lock tight every door but the one you wanted to walk through, then throw away all of the keys.

"What?" Zemar blinked.

"From your promise. You're not forsworn, I release you."

"Thank you," Zemar said, his relief apparent on his face. "You're very forgiving."

Allen grinned. "Did I say I've forgiven you? I said that I release you, not that I forgive you!" Then he sobered. "What was done to you was wrong, but I know how tempting it is to do to others what was done to oneself. I gave in to it. You are stronger than I was."

"You were a child!" Zemar said. "Surely you can let it go now!"

"Are you saying that being a man doesn't come with its own temptations? Or that they're weaker than those of a child?"

Zemar smiled wryly. "The blood runs hotter than it used to, yes."

That was one way to put it! "Exactly. I had to really hurt someone before I learned. You are learning without hurting anyone."

"Except you," Zemar said. "I have no right to do this to you. It's because of my own weakness. I'm sorry."

"No," Allen said. "It's better this way. If you hadn't told me and just went through with it, that would have hurt me. This is a regret, not a wound, and I'm grateful for that."

Zemar nodded. "So I hoped." Then he put his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his turban. "I'm not even sure I can do this! I don't have the first idea what women want or how to keep them happy. I haven't had much to do with them except for my mother and sisters, and I haven't seen them since I was a child."

"They're not so bad," Allen said.

Zemar looked up. "That's right. You've spent a lot of time with women. What are they really like? What do they want?"

Allen thought about all of the women he'd seen come and go in his Master's life. "They're all different," he said, "and they all want different things."

"How is that supposed to help?" Zemar asked, a frantic tone in his voice.

"Look at it this way." Allen leaned forward, resting his hand on Zemar's arm. "You don't have to worry about what all of them want. You only have to worry about one."

"But what about her mother? Or her sisters? No matter what, there will be more than one of them."

Allen laughed. "Just take them one at a time! Start with your bride. She's the one who's most important."

"But there must be some secret." Zemar looked close to panic, but for the last five years, the only women in his life were those who passed by on the street. "What about your Master? They all seem to like him, although if that's what it takes, maybe this isn't such a good idea. I don't want to become that, either."

"They don't all like him," Allen said, "and he puts some effort into being as appealing possible to as many of them as possible."

"Hard to imagine anyone turning down your Master!"

"It happens a lot, believe me! He just keeps going until he finds someone who says yes. It also helps that he pays, or rather, I do. It's very easy to be attractive in a brothel when you're running up a generous tab."

"I forgot about that," Zemar said. "How much debt has he laden you with?"

"You really don't want to know, and it's probably getting worse as we speak!" Allen sighed.

"You're still bound to him, even now?"

"Yes. I'm still his apprentice, and I'm about to join the same organization he belongs to."

Zemar looked pensive and sad. "I wonder if you'll ever be free."

"Maybe I don't deserve it," Allen said. "Anyway, it's what I want. I've committed to becoming an Exorcist, and I'm going to see it through."

Zemar shook his head. "Whether you deserve it or not is for God to judge, not for you or me, but whether you do or not, I'm glad you want it because if you didn't, it would be hell."

Allen thought back on his endless years in the circus. "Having this hand, and having it be completely useless with no idea what it was for, that was hell. I wish…" He hesitated, struggling to find the right words and failing. "I wish I could have learned to use it under better circumstances, but knowing how, knowing that I can, I need that." Then he smiled, hoping to reassure Zemar. "If I can handle my Master, I can handle anything."

"When I first met you, I would have laughed and agreed with you," Zemar said. "Now, I am not so sure. This Black Order of yours, I've been asking around. All anyone knows is that they're somehow connected to Rome. Those who must deal with them fear them. People disappear into that place and are never seen or heard from again."

"My Master's been with it for many years. Obviously, they're not all dead."

"That's part of what worries me," Zemar said. "Your Master is an evil man. That he has so much power, so much influence with these people, does not speak well of them."

"He hates them," Allen said. "That's why he wouldn't go with me."

"Again, eight months ago I would have agreed with you, but I do not like what I hear. You are walking into the lion's mouth, my friend."

"That may be," Allen said, "but to have these…" He used his left hand to point to his eye. "…and not use them, what would that make me?"

"A wiser man than you are, but also a coward. Come to my room! There's something I want to give you."

"All right."

The hotel was just down the street, and Zemar's room was on an upper floor, small but light and airy, with a soft breeze coming in through the windows. After he closed the door, Zemar ran the backs of his fingers down the line of Allen's scar. "I believe that we were brought together today by God so that we can say a proper goodbye, but to say goodbye is different from forgetting. I will pray for you until the day I die." His lips touched Allen's lightly once, twice, then they settled there, graceful and delicate as butterflies.

Allen moaned as he leaned up into it, his thumbs brushing over Zemar's new beard as their mouths opened in unison, lip playing over lip, tongue over tongue, familiar and thrilling, their hands on each other's faces, memorizing the contours as if they were both born blind. They were pushing it, right to the edge, but they had taught each other this, perfected it together, spent hours indulging for the sheer joy of it interspersed with quiet conversation, learning each other's minds as they learned each other's mouths. In the end, they decided that when Zemar was free to grow his beard and Allen had to shave his, they would finish what they started.

They had sealed that promise with a kiss. It was only fitting that they let it go the same way.

The problem was that they had to let it go, and when they did they stood for a while, their foreheads pressed together, their fingers digging into the backs of each other's necks, the silence punctuated by catches in their breathing. It was the new promise, not the breaking of the old one, that filled Allen's heart to bursting. No one else in this world would remember him five times a day for the rest of their lives.

"Thank you," Allen said when he could trust his voice again. "Now it's my turn. This…" He wiped the tears from Zemar's face before kissing him hard on the mouth. "…is for you. Always. This…" He kissed Zemar on one cheek. "…is for your bride, and these…" He kissed Zemar on alternating cheeks several times. "…are for your daughters."

"Daughters?" Zemar gasped, then he laughed. "Now there's a thought, a houseful of women of my own making! Just for that, I will name one of them after you!"

"You shouldn't insult her like that!" Allen's smile softened. "Even if you fail, you will have failed at doing the right thing, which is far better than succeeding at doing the wrong thing, but I hope it goes well for you. I really do. More than anything, I want you to be happy."

"The hours I have spent with you have been very happy." Zemar said, "so you have already given me that." Then his eyes went serious. "_Fi Amanillah, _Allen Walker. May God protect you. I fear you will need it." Then Zemar bent his head for one last kiss.

Allen was well through the city before he felt like he had himself under control again. He was sure Zemar was doing the right thing and he hoped with all his heart that his friend would be happy, but damn it, when would he ever find someone he trusted that much again? It didn't seem possible.

"_Allaahuaaaa akbaaaaaaaaauaaaaaar! Allaahuaaaaaaaaa akbaaauaaaaaaauaar_!"

A different call, from a different mosque. Was it better? Or worse? Or simply not the same? Allen swallowed hard, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand as he walked toward the evening sun.


	4. Poker

**Author's notes:** Sammi117, I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter and I hope this one is even a little worth the wait. It's been murder.

GreenGreyBlue, I've always thought that Allen would have to grow up fast, and I wrote Zemar the same way. Sadly, there are still dancing boys. Those cycles are so hard to break.

On the translation thing, I wish I knew why the official translation went the way it did. I read another language well enough to translate as an exercise, so I know how things can get scrambled, but this one is a puzzle to me. I've read several possible reasons, but none of them seem quite right. I took liberties with it, but translation itself takes liberties, so I hope the gods of such things (and readers of DGM) forgive me.

Thank you both, as always.

On a more general note, I don't think I've so much finished this one as edited and rewritten it into the ground. I could probably spend another week on it without any real improvement. Hope it works as it is.

**XxXxXxXxXxXx**

**Poker**

It was nice, Allen thought, to draw to a genuinely good hand. The reason he cheated was because it happened so rarely, but this was the sort of thing he cheated in order to assemble, full house, queens high. He waited, watching the faces of the men around the table, looking for any indication of how their hands had changed. They, too, were watching him, but he'd found that his clown's smile made for the perfect poker face. It was a disarming, tranquil expression, one that people struggled to distrust, and it had the advantage of keeping him in a quiet mood. It was hard to stay angry when he was smiling, and he knew all too well how anger could get the better of him.

He felt a hand settle on his shoulder, and he hid his cards, looking up into the face of a man who was built like the side of a mountain. "Allen Walker?"

"Yes?"

"A friend would like to see you."

"A friend?" Allen had no friends in Smyrna.

"A friend of your Master."

Bloody hell! Allen clung tight to his smile. "May I ask who?" Situations like this were why Allen preferred not to stay in one place for too long, although some of Cross's so-called friends didn't need much time. They had eyes and ears everywhere.

"Mr. Artino heard that you were in town, and would like to greet you personally."

The entire corner of the room went suddenly quiet.

The list of people Allen's Master had pissed off was more than long enough to serve as a penmanship exercise. Some were more dangerous than others, and Artino was one of the more dangerous. He was a shipping magnate, based primarily in Greece. In a world where everything could be bought, he preferred theft, partly for the thrill of getting away with it, but mostly for the frisson he got from the terror and misery in his victims' eyes.

It was no surprise that Cross had made his acquaintance, also no surprise that Cross had gotten the better of him. Allen's Master enjoyed playing the player the way other men enjoyed a game of croquet.

"May I finish this hand?" Allen asked, stalling for time, even though he knew it wasn't going to help. Odds of him being able to evade this man were about the same as drawing to a royal flush.

"Of course. There's plenty of time."

"Thank you," Allen said.

Unfortunately, the presence of Artino's man so unnerved the others at the table, that they threw their hands in just to get rid of him. Allen kept his smile in place, but inwardly he seethed. It wasn't just that he could have won a lot more, he hated to see such a good hand go to waste.

When they got to the street, Allen was surprised to see a motorcar waiting. They were rare in Europe, where they were very much a work in progress as inventions went, and Allen thought it likely that this was the only one in Turkey. There was a good deal of staring being done by passers-by, who were discouraged from taking closer looks by a second very large man who stood guard. The thing looked like a small, low-slung phaeton, black, with large bicycle wheels and a long box under the seat that contained the engine.

"If you would, sir?" Artino's man gestured toward the seat, and Allen sat down, probably more carefully than he needed to. The vehicle shook as the man cranked the engine to life, then he lit the headlamps before getting in beside Allen and waving the guard away. The big man fiddled with a few things, listening to the putt-putt sound of the engine, then he released the brake

The result was both terrifying and exhilarating, like riding on the steam dome of a locomotive. Artino's man handled it easily, steering with a wheel on a post that stood between them, adjusting levers as their speed changed. Both people and horses startled at the sight or sound of it, clearing the way as quickly as possible, and Allen tried hard not to cling to the seat every time they turned a corner.

Much to Allen's relief, they were still in the city when they stopped. The man who came down to the curb to greet him was older and very dignified, although Allen had a feeling he was no less deadly in his own way than the human mountain. He put gloved fingers on Allen's elbow as he showed him to the door, a gesture that left Allen with the impression that he was being restrained. The motorcar was driven away, and Allen wondered briefly where it was kept.

The house was three balconied stories of stone and stucco in a neighborhood that was going to seed. The interior, however, although casually furnished, was luxurious, a Mediterranean playhouse where unseemly noises would go largely ignored. The butler offered to take Allen's suitcase, which Allen declined, but he didn't want to leave anything anywhere where he might have to go looking for it later.

He was led upstairs to a door with two armed guards, and the butler knocked quietly. "Mr. Artino, Allen Walker is here."

"Wonderful!" said a rich, baritone voice as the door was opened from the inside.

Artino was a congenial-looking man of average height and weight, his dark hair starting to go white at the temples and in his neatly-trimmed beard. His suit was simple but so expertly tailored that Allen couldn't be sure he was armed, although he would have been a fool not to be, and he was no fool. His smile was welcoming, and he had an air of calm about him that Allen had seen in contemplative monks and experienced assassins, a sense of disconnection from the world that made the normally impossible not merely possible, but reasonable.

"Hello, Allen!" he said in lightly-accented English, gesturing toward one of two leather armchairs that faced a screened fireplace, which was laid but wasn't lit. "I'm so sorry to have interrupted your game, but I wanted to be sure I caught you before you left. You may leave your bag by the door, if you prefer not to entrust it to Philip, but please, sit down! I haven't seen you for some time. I hope you are well?"

Allen sat and looked around, absorbing every detail about the room. It was a small reading room, the walls lined with locked bookcases, the only furniture the two chairs by the fireplace and the table between them. There was nothing left lying about, no paperweights, ashtrays, not even pokers for the fire. Light came from fixtures attached to the mantle. There was only one door and the windows had wrought iron shutters, which were locked tight. It was an elegant cage, but a cage nonetheless. "I am well, thank you," Allen said. "And you?"

"Quite well. I understand you don't drink alcohol, so I had some tea made. Is that acceptable?"

Artino's congeniality, Allen knew, was intended to put him at ease, and he knew how dangerous that would be. However, it was a game he also knew how to play, so he smiled and said, "Yes, thank you."

"It's an oolong," Artino said as he poured, "made from leaves harvested from the very top of the tree. Legend has it that in ancient times, the monks used to train monkeys to pick the leaves because it was impossible for a man to climb to those branches. The flavor is milder and more delicate than usual." He gave a cup to Allen with a slight bow before taking the other chair. "I hope it meets with your approval."

He was showing off his taste for and ability to obtain the exotic, but Allen also had a feeling that it was a courting gift being offered in such a way that it would be rude to refuse, like an expensive necklace given in public to a woman one wanted but who did not return the feelings. The response had to be a delicate balance between courtesy and ignoring the implied debt. Allen took a sip before setting the cup down on the table. "It's very mild."

"I'm glad it meets with your approval," Artino said, ignoring the fact that Allen had made no indication whether he approved or not. "And what did you think of my new toy? I've been fascinated with motorcars for years. Mine is the first production model. It has its quirks, I'll admit, but it's a joy to drive."

Allen no longer had any doubt that he was being courted. In fact, Artino had gone beyond that, implying not merely that Allen could be bought, but that he already had been and was being indulged by a generous lover. "It's certainly fascinating," he said, "but it seems impractical."

Artino laughed. "The engineer's wife took it on a sixty-mile trip to visit her mother, so it has the potential to be very practical indeed, especially if one wants to be rid of one's wife for a week or so. Where is your Master, Allen? When I heard you were in town, I expected to have word of him, too, but there is none."

"We parted in India," Allen said, "and I haven't seen him since."

"What a shame." Artino took a sip of his tea. "I was looking forward to renewing our acquaintance."

Allen didn't doubt that. "I'm sorry to have to disappoint you."

"Ah, but you haven't," Artino said, setting his cup down. "Your Master and I had some unfinished business. I thought perhaps you and I could come to a satisfactory arrangement instead."

That meant Artino intended to take the debt out of Allen's hide, and Allen put on his poker face. "If you tell me what my Master owes you, I'll see what I can do about paying you back."

Artino smiled, one of the most chilling things Allen had ever seen. "If your Master had sent you sooner, I might have accepted the offer, but enough time has passed so that money won't bring much satisfaction. I don't need it. I've made what he owes me ten times over, but the sense of debt still lingers."

"My Master didn't send me," Allen said. "My offer has nothing to do with him."

"Nonetheless your arrival is quite fortuitous."

"Oh?" Allen steadied his breathing, trying to slow his racing pulse.

"The truth is, Allen, I'm bored. I need a diversion, and you've come along at just the right time."

Allen put on his most ingenuous expression. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'll disappoint you, unless you like to play poker."

Artino laughed. "I've heard of your abilities, but I'm afraid I've never been one for cards. No, I was thinking of a diversion of another kind." The implication this time was unmistakable.

"I'm sorry?" Allen raised both eyebrows, as if he hadn't understood.

"You sound surprised. I wouldn't have expected that from Marion's apprentice."

"Of course I'm surprised! Most people find my face and arm a bit off-putting."

"Your face is certainly striking. That scar look as if someone carved it deliberately. Let me see the rest of it."

Allen lifted the scarf that covered his hair, exposing the star on his forehead. This was going to get ugly, it was only a matter of time, and he was waiting for Artino to produce a weapon. What was it? And where was it? Guessing wrong could get him killed.

Artino peered at him with the look of a man examining a curio in the marketplace. "Now that is fascinating! Care to tell me how it happened?"

Allen did care, so he chose his usual evasive reply. "I was very young at the time."

"And you don't remember? I see. Do you still have sight in that eye? It's remarkably well preserved considering the injury."

"Yes." A little too much sight, but this was something else Allen didn't intend to explain.

"Your hair suggests albinism, but your skin tans like that of an ordinary Englishman, poorly but it does tan."

Allen responded to the implied question. "My hair turned white from shock when I was a child."

"Presumably the same shock that gave you that scar. Interesting. Must have been quite an experience! Shame you don't remember it."

Allen remembered it quite vividly.

"I find your face quite novel, Allen. It's easy for a man in my position to grow jaded, so I appreciate novelty all the more. Now about the arm. I've been curious about that for some time. Birth defect, I understand, although the way your clothes fit indicates that it's not an actual deformity. Let's have a look."

Allen took off his glove and rolled up his sleeve. Usually, this was enough, but this time, he wasn't so sure. Artino was a world away from the average pleasure-seeker.

"Good God!" Artino said, and Allen caught the twitch of the hand toward the chest. "What was your mother sleeping with, the devil himself?"

Allen shrugged. It was a common question to which there was no answer.

Artino held out his hand. "Give it here."

Allen complied, keeping his smile in place and his breathing steady. The last thing he needed to do here was panic.

Artino's thick, dry fingers turned Allen's hand over first one way then another. Only hours at the poker table made it possible for Allen to keep his face still. "This is very curious," Artino said, tracing the cross on the back of Allen's hand, "as if someone inlaid it into your skin. Are you quite sure you were born with this?"

"It's been like that as long as I can remember," Allen said, keeping his voice calm.

"It vibrates, like a ship's engine felt through the deck. Has it always done that?"

Allen nodded, although he was so tense at the moment that the vibration echoed through his entire arm.

"Do the nails grow this color, or do you paint them?"

"It's how they grow." He was pretty sure Artino was prolonging this to unnerve him, and it was taking everything he had to keep it from working.

Artino poked at them. "I'm not surprised you let them grow out. Must be nearly impossible to trim them."

"I don't. They never get any longer."

Artino rose, keeping his hold on Allen's hand as he moved from his own chair to the arm of Allen's, drawing a pistol from under his coat and resting it on his thigh, his finger on the trigger. "You're quite the study in contrasts, Allen Walker. From the right, you look like the kind of angels the English are so fond of drawing on their Christmas postcards, but from the left you look freshly ascended from Hell. How far east have you been?"

"Only as far as India." Allen kept his eyes on Artino's, but he kept the gun in his peripheral vision.

"In the Far East, there is a delicacy made from the blowfish. It contains a deadly poison such that if it's not prepared perfectly, it kills the diner. Looking at you gives me the same thrill I had when I first sat down to eat it. My rational mind knows that there's no such thing as demons, but a primitive part of me shudders."

Allen remained silent, waiting.

"Touching your hand is like taking those first bites of blowfish, when the numbness of the lips and tongue begins to set in and one wonders, is this it? Am I dying? I never imagined I would experience that thrill again. I find it quite arousing."

That was obvious.

"I wonder what I will see in your eyes," Artino murmured, letting go of Allen's hand and cupping his chin. "Will it be the despair of a violated virgin, or the calculation of an experienced whore? I believe this is the first time I have not known the answer beforehand. A most expensive delicacy, considering what your Master owes me, but well worth the price!"

It wasn't a good chance, but it was Allen's last chance. He twisted to the right, invoking his weapon. It slammed into Artino's jaw just as the pistol fired, drawing a line of white heat along Allen's side as Artino fell backward to the floor. He still had a hold of the gun and was leveling it at Allen when Timcanpy flung himself out of Allen's pocket and into the air. Artino's aim wavered, and Allen landed a savage kick, knocking the pistol across the room and doing his level best to break Artino's wrist as he did. The door burst open, and Allen swung his arm outward, knocking both guards off their feet and hard into the wall before they had a chance to shoot. One of them cried out, grabbing his shoulder, his gun forgotten, and the other lay still.

Artino lay on the floor, clutching his hand, his eyes seething with rage. Allen clamped his claw over the man's throat, and through the scarlet roaring of his blood, he could hear the agonized silences in the circus tents, see the tired resignation in the eyes of those he knew who had run afoul of men like this. Artino was no better than a rabid dog, attacking viciously, mindlessly, and infecting everyone he bit. It was time to end it, past time.

_Allen!_

Tears prickled in Allen's eyes, and the rage drained out of him. _Mana?_

_Let him go, Allen. Your weapon can't help him._

_But he deserves to die!_

_That's not your decision to make. You're an Exorcist, not an executioner._

_But…_

_Life isn't a reward and death isn't a punishment. You know that._

He did. He had no more right to take a life than he had to bring one back from the dead. _I'm sorry, Mana!_

Allen loosened his grip, leaving Artino clutching his throat and wheezing as he fought for breath, then he turned to the guards. One was unconscious and bleeding from the side of his head. The other was clutching his shoulder, but when he saw Allen, he let go and started fumbling for his gun, his terrified eyes fixed on Allen's arm. Allen clipped him on the side of the head with his toe, grabbed his bag and left, his weapon deactivating as he opened the door.

The hall was still deserted, but it probably hadn't occurred to anyone yet that the guards had been overwhelmed. He took the servants' stairs, knowing that if he ran into someone, they'd be less likely to ask questions. It wasn't their place, and this probably wasn't a good place to ask questions, full stop. He went down to the kitchen, where the cook gave him a sharp look then jerked her head toward the back door. The cook's helpers tried not to look at him at all.

He stumbled out into the alley, and ran, not knowing where he was going, just trying to stay clear of the main avenues, clutching his side where it felt like someone had tried to flay him. Tim fluttered just in front of him, but Allen was too disoriented to know if the golem was trying to lead him or if it was just staying close.

"Wait, Tim!" He slumped against a wall, half-hidden by rubbish, trying to catch his breath. He needed somewhere to rest, where he could clean himself up and pull himself together, but he had no idea where to go. He couldn't exactly ask directions from people on the street with blood soaking his clothes.

"Fuck you, Master!" he muttered. "Fuck you, I hate you for this! Why can't you clean up your own messes? Shit!"

Timcanpy dove into his jacket just as someone spoke to him in Turkish, and Allen looked up to see a boy of about thirteen or fourteen in a pair of too-short trousers and an oversized shirt.

"_Μιλάτε Ελληνικά?"_ Allen asked, figuring that Greek was his best bet. His Turkish wasn't good enough to bluff in.

"_Nαί_," the boy said. "Shit!" he continued in the same language. "I thought you were an old drunk! Are you all right? You're bleeding."

"I'm fine," Allen said. "Just a stupid fight. Do you know a hotel here? Doesn't have to be a good one."

"Yeah, I might," the boy said.

"Take me, and I'll make it worth your while."

The boy nodded. "All right."

The hotel was perfect, a run-down hole used mostly by prostitutes and addicts, where a gunshot wound would only draw attention if it ultimately proved fatal. The manager handed over a key without looking too closely at his new tenant. "Washroom on the left," was his only comment, and he didn't seem to care whether Allen understood or not.

"You sure you're okay?" the kid said. "I know a doctor. He drinks too much, but…" he shrugged. Drunk was better than nothing.

"I'm okay," Allen said. "It looks worse than it is."

"You change your mind, tell Haluk at the desk. I'll check in with him in half an hour, and if there's word from you, I'll send the doctor."

"Thanks," Allen said.

"Yeah. Good luck!"

The light in the washroom was horrible, the mirror was broken, and the plumbing looked like it had been put in by the Romans during Alexander's conquest. Allen stripped gingerly from the waist up and peered at his side. It looked like someone had attacked him with a chisel, a deep gouge just below his ribs. Fuck, that was close! A few inches to the right, and Allen wouldn't have left that house alive.

He had no towels, so he used his shirt to wash the wound before opening his suitcase. Clamping his damp shirt to his side with his elbow, he fished out gauze, bandages and a bottle of carbolic acid, wishing for the thousandth time that he had laudanum. This would be a lot easier if he had something to dull the pain. He soaked a piece of gauze in carbolic acid, took a deep breath, started to breathe out, and swapped the gauze for the shirt, biting back a scream as the alcohol and camphor set fire to the wound.

Someone banged on the door and yelled at him, first in Turkish, then in something Allen didn't know, then in English.

Well, that was conveninent. "Piss off!" Allen yelled back.

"Motherfucking bastard! Get the hell out; you don't live there!"

"It was your mother," Allen said, his self-control completely wrecked by pain. "And quite a night, too, so shut your sodding mouth and wait!" God, why did people have to keep commenting on his sexual proclivities and parentage? Someday someone would come up with an original insult, surely!

The only reply was a curse and a sound kick to the door.

When Allen's vision stopped swimming, he bound the gauze in place, taping it down carefully so it wouldn't come undone while he slept. Then he cleaned up as best he could, closed his suitcase, balled up his ruined clothes, and opened the door.

The man in front of him was haggard and strung out, and he smelled like someone had thrown up on him. From the looks of him, he might have done it himself. "You little shit, I'm going to…" He finished the sentence with a stunned curse, staggered back a step, and crossed himself, twice.

Allen smiled, not kindly. Like this, disheveled, bandaged and shirtless after having done a poor job of washing up, he probably looked from all angles like something freshly ascended from Hell. "Got a problem?"

"N…no problem."

"Good."

Allen's new room was barely large enough for the bed on its rickety frame, no other furniture, not even a rug or curtain. He sat on the floor with his back against the bed, hugging his legs, contemplating getting drunk or laid or both. It would help. He knew it would help, and however much like shit he'd feel afterward because of the damage he did, if he kept doing it, he wouldn't care. He knew it worked because he'd spent three bloody years traveling with someone who was a splendid example of success, the same bloody someone who got him into this mess and would roundly mock Allen if he saw him in this state.

_Got that right! Didn't you learn a thing from me?_

_I don't have Maria to hide behind! _Allen thought.

_That's why you need to be a lot better than you are._

"Shut the fuck up, shut the bloody fuck up, you rat bastard!" Allen snarled, then he let his head fall to his knees, tears soaking his trousers. God, with Demons it was so easy! They weren't supposed to be in this world, so all he had to do was set them free, but people, shit! It wasn't that there was no easy way out, it was that there was no way out at all. He could have Artino's blood on his hands or the fate of the man's future victims on his conscience, and the choice he'd made left him curled in a ball, sobbing with guilt. How many people were going to suffer because of what he hadn't done?

He knew why he didn't have laudanum. The only reason he wasn't reaching for something to dull the pain was because there was nothing within reach.

The thing about crying, though, was that while he felt like shit during, he felt better when it was over, rather than the other way around, and really it was better this way. Despair was like being torn limb from limb, but nothing you could do to escape it would make it go away. One way or another, it was always there, waiting until the high wore off, growing bigger over time, until it finally got loose and devoured you.

_At least I don't snivel my way through my problems like a Goddamned schoolgirl. _

_No, your problems become my problems._

_You're making my point here, kid. The problems aren't mine anymore. _

_So that's your answer, find an apprentice and dump everything on him?_

_Best to pick a slow learner, _his mental version of Cross said.

_I'm not as slow as you think._

_You're not as smart as you think._

How smart was he, really? At that moment, he didn't feel smart at all. He felt frightened and horribly alone. He needed Mana, even if only to tell him that it really was his father he heard back there, and not his own cowardice.

Timcanpy hovered at eye level, and Allen pulled together a half-smile at the little gold ball that had saved his life by drawing Artino's fire. "Thank you, Tim," he said.

The golem flew in a quick spiral, then darted upward to sit on the windowsill over the bed.

Allen looked up, sighed, then forced himself to his feet, easing himself onto the bed, barely dragging together enough energy to take off his shoes. "Keep an eye on the door, will you?" he asked, and he closed his eyes, not so much falling asleep as passing out from exhaustion, trying in vain to dream of Mana's voice.

**XxXxXxXx**

**PostScript:** The car is a Benz Velo, and the bit about the engineer's wife is true. She not only invented the road trip, she invented brake lining along the way. (Correction/clarification: she drove the earlier Motorwagen, not the Velo.)


	5. Heart of Stone

**Author's notes: **Sammi117, I was thinking that Cross probably left a trail of mess behind him wherever he went. Poor Allen indeed!

Angel Fantasy, I thought they deserved whatever shock they got!

EsTeLweNadia, thank you so much! I'm glad you like the way Allen's turning out so far, and there will be lots of hurt.

As far as the story itself is concerned, it's flagrant AllenXOC this time.

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**Heart of Stone**

The house didn't look like anything special, just a well-kept mansion with a golden rose above knocker. The only things distinguishing it from the home of a wealthy family were the location, on the edge of the red-light district, and the size of the doorman, whose suit would probably fit a rhinocerous.

"Excuse me," Allen said.

"Go away, kid," the doorman said. "Appointment only, and anyway, you're too young."

Allen smiled. He'd expected that. "Could you please tell Iona that Allen Walker is here?"

The doorman's eyebrows went up. "Iona, eh? All right. Wait here." He disappeared into the house and Allen breathed a sigh of relief. She was still there.

When the doorman returned, his demeanor was quite different. "Come in, sir," he said as he held the door open. "She'll see you in her room."

Allen entered an tastefully decorated foyer, all mahogany and silver, with exquisitely woven carpets on the floor in shades of scarlet, cream and blue. A butler took over from the doorman, leading Allen up the stairs and down a hallway before knocking on the far door. It was answered by a dark-haired girl in a faded green dressing gown, and Allen's heart leapt at the sight of her.

"Allen!" she said, and she took his hand, drew him into the room and closed the door before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him, barely giving him time to drop his suitcase.

It was the long, hungry kiss of reunited lovers, a greeting, a reminder, a question, an answer. She pulled him further into the room, without breaking the kiss, until they collided with a chaise lounge and landed in an undignified, happy heap.

"How are you?" he asked, trying very hard not to look at her neck. She had four bruises on one side and one on the other, just behind and under her jaw.

She smiled. "I'm fine. I sold a few hats. We have a new maid, after the old one ran off with one of our regulars. Nothing much changes around here."

From Iona's point of view, being choked probably wasn't noteworthy, but she wasn't pressing him about the bandage on his side. He was an Exorcist and a gambler. Injuries were even more of an occupational hazard for him than they were for her, and she knew it.

"Your hair's grown out a bit," she said, running her fingers through it.

"I know," he said. "I need to get it cut." Iona's English was better than Allen's Greek, so they defaulted to English but they didn't stick to it. They understood each other perfectly, but an eavesdropper would have had a problem.

"It looks good like this. Wait, what's…" She moved as a small ball wriggled free of Allen's waistcoat pocket. "That's not Timcanpy, is it?"

"That's Tim," Allen said as the golem flew around the room. "Master left him with me."

"He's tiny." She watched, rapt, as Tim burrowed into a basket of silk flowers. The golem always seemed to know when he wasn't needed as well as when he was.

"He changed size. I don't know how or why he does that," Allen said. "He's easier to hide now, but cats find him irresistible."

"I believe it. He looks like a little bird. What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm heading for England," he said, stroking her cheek, where light freckles spilled over from the bridge of her nose. If the world hurt more now, its joys were also sweeter, like lying in the sunlight with a girl whose eyes shone when she smiled at him.

"What kind of business does your Master have in England?" she asked.

"I'm not with him," Allen said.

Her eyes widened. "You're not? How did that happen?"

"I'm supposed to go to the Black Order Headquarters to officially become an Exorcist, and he refuses to go to Headquarters."

"Well, that's good! Where's Headquarters?"

"I don't know."

Iona made a face. "He told you to go there and he didn't tell you where it is?"

"No, but I think I know who to ask. That's why I'm going to England."

"So where did he leave you?"

"India."

"India? What were you doing there?"

"Same thing we did everywhere else," Allen said. "Master drank, smoked or shagged everything that wasn't nailed down, then vanished."

Iona made another face. "Where is he now?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, at least he isn't here! My God, it's good to see you!" She reached for his left hand and pulled his glove off, weaving her fingers with his. "Yep, it's really you. Hair can be bleached and that scar could be drawn, but nobody else could have this hand."

"Why would they want to?" he asked, both warmed and amused. Iona was one of a very few people who dealt with his hand so comfortably, neither cringing away from it nor trying to pretend it was normal.

"I don't know," she said. "It's just that I can't believe I'm awake. This is the sort of thing you wish you could dream about, but never do."

"I know what you mean," he said. He had no doubts about his ability to get to England. It was reaching this place he'd been unsure of, as if it didn't really exist in this world.

She picked deftly at the knot of his tie, making short work of it, then she did the same with his waistcoat and shirt buttons, holding his gaze as her hand slid smoothly over his chest, up to his shoulder, then down over his arm under his sleeve. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he ran his thumb over her lips, and kissed her.

He was so glad he'd caught her before she dressed. Instead of a Godawful nightmare of fabric and boning that took forever to get her out of, it was just her under the robe. All he had to do was untie the sash. He was the one who needed undressing, and he kicked his off his shoes and shed his shirt and waistcoat as she unbuckled his belt, groaning when she shifted her attention to his trouser buttons. She just smiled, her hand sliding under his waistband over his hip and down to his thigh, the caress taking his trousers and his shorts down with it until he could kick those off, too.

She bathed more thoroughly than anyone else he knew, so thoroughly that at first all he could smell was soap, rosewater and the herbal rinse she used on her hair. After a while, though, something else began to drift to the surface, something that was hers alone, honey and saffron, the scent of warm skin that blushed like lilies, where he could browse to his heart's content, then quench his thirst on a mouth that tasted of apples and wine.

Iona was a garden, exotic and beautiful, thick with leafy branches that hung heavy with fruit. It was all his, every hill and valley, just as the plains of his body were hers, and they wound around each other like vines, forgetting where one ended and the other began. She even liked the touch of his left hand. That hand was death, except here, with her, where it sang its echo of his own joy, and she opened like a flower at its touch, beads of sweat like nectar forming on her skin. Her hair was soft as feathers, her eyes dark as the eyes of doves, and her voice a soft coo in his ear.

Iona was a sealed fountain, and when he set his fingers on the lock, they dripped with myrrh. Her face flushed, her eyes closed, every muscle tensed in anticipation, and for a few glorious moments, he had her entire world in his hand. Then the fountain burst, its basins overflowed, and she clung to him, her nails digging into his skin as she whimpered and shook, losing herself as she did with no one else.

"Allen!" she whispered as she pulled him closer, but there was only one thing left to do, and nothing in the world he wanted more. He felt so strong with her, like a king in his chariot or a stag on a mountainside, his left hand under her head, his right holding her close. That soft, wet heat was a maddening mix of everything and not quite enough that made his body demand more, demand movement, friction, more—God!—Iona, pure as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners. He felt his weapon flare and felt himself break up inside, life flowing through him like a river of stars racing to scatter into an endless, welcoming night.

He collapsed, and she stroked his arm, kissed his cheek, held him as his breathing and heartbeat slowed and his weapon calmed down. He thought, in his euphoria, that he could sleep forever as long as neither of them moved, but he had to, so he did, shifting to his side and pulling her onto his chest.

Only then did he realize that he still had his socks on. He pulled them off with his toes, pretending to ignore Iona's silent laughter.

"I know why you came here," she said.

"Hm?"

"This is goodbye, isn't it."

"Why do you say that?" he asked, suddenly alert.

"You had to detour to see me," she said, "and you're in a hurry."

He wished he had it in him to lie to her, but he didn't. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I wasn't sure you'd be able to, so I'm glad you did."

"You weren't sure I'd be able to?" He looked at her. "What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath. "In my profession, we know everything, or we know someone who does, but even we know very little about the Black Order. I can tell you more about the Pope than I can about your Master, and your Master spends a lot more time in places like this. Information about these people is simply not shared, and we are the ones with whom men share everything."

It was true. Among the clients at the Golden Rose were ambassadors, government officials, spies, even priests, all of whom paid for those moments of weakness that opened men's hearts and loosened their tongues.

"Part of the problem is that no one unconnected to the Order would believe us," she went on. "If I told the other girls about your arm, they would think I was mad. However." She traced his scar with her fingertip. "With most secrets, there are ways of letting people know that you're in on it. In this case, though, they don't work. If you cannot show that you are with the Order, nobody will tell you anything, and with no other secret society is this true. Allen, I wanted to have something for you if I ever saw you again, and I don't."

"Iona!" He kissed her. "You shouldn't have done that." It could have cost her her job, but discretion was part of what women like her were paid for.

"Don't worry!" she said. "I just called in a few favors, or tried to. I didn't ask for anything that would get anyone into trouble. The thing is, Allen, I've come to the conclusion that the real reason nobody says anything is because they're too scared. I can feel it whenever it's mentioned. Stories about demons and lost souls don't have that kind of power. They feel like superstitious nonsense, and that doesn't really frighten people. The thing that frightens people most is other people. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

As far as she was concerned, the Order itself was worse than Demons. "Yes, I understand." He took a deep breath. He was here to say more than goodbye, and now was as good a time as any. "Iona, I…"

"Allen, I…" she said at the same time, then they stopped and laughed. "You first," she said.

"No, you."

"No, you."

"One of us has to go first," he said, "and I would rather it was you."

"All right then," she said. "I want you to make me a promise."

"I'm not in a position to promise anyone anything," he said. "You know that."

"This one, you can keep, if you want, but it won't be easy. The thing is, if you could, it would mean more to me than anything else you could do."

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't want you to worry about me," she said. "Not even for a minute. When you think of me, I want you to think of me the way I am with you. I don't want you to think about anything else."

He sucked a quick breath through his teeth, stunned by the enormity of her request. She'd been hit by storms that had battered other girls beyond recognition, and it wasn't over yet. It wasn't just difficult to not worry, it seemed heartless and cold.

"Will you?" she insisted.

He knew how the world saw girls like her, damaged at best, vile at worst, a plague on society but a necessary one, a sop to men's darker impulses. She could put up no defense, because virtue was supposed to be a girl's ironclad safeguard against misfortune, and every event that led her to this place was taken as proof that she never had any virtue to begin with.

He also knew that the only real difference between them was an accident of birth. An orphaned girl with an astonishingly lovely face was subjected to abuses that a boy with a deformed arm was spared, and a boy had opportunities no girl would ever have. Allen could have taken up prostitution, but Iona could never have played poker. They simply wouldn't let her in the game.

She had lost everything, not just the family she was born into or any hope for a respectable livelihood, but any hope she might have had of having a family of her own. Still, it seemed that everything good in her had survived. She was clever, inventive and tenacious, sparing with her loyalty but fierce when it was given, and she treated people fairly, promising no more than she could give and giving what she promised. Sometimes it could get her hurt. Whoever choked her had undoubtedly wanted more than what he'd paid for, but she would no more bend to that than she would leverage Allen's feelings for her into cash.

It made her seem ruthless, but Allen had spent enough time in brothels to understand the alternative. Despair was common in these places, whatever form it took, whether it was drink, opium, deliberate cruelty, or falling in love with the wrong men because one could no longer have the right ones. Guilt was common, too, as was shame, and each took their own toll. Iona wasn't untouched by them, she had just figured out how to keep from getting mired in them, drawing on a hidden core of strength that she didn't even seem to know she had.

It wasn't that she had a heart of gold. Gold was too soft and malleable. Iona had a heart of stone, but was one of those stones that had crystals inside, where they grew hidden and protected into a beauty rivaling anything that had been cut and polished by human hands.

One of the worst thing his worry did was leave him wondering if the reason he'd been able to see inside that heart was because he'd broken it. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he found himself wondering if those crystals were an illusion and she'd played him for a fool. Being with Iona showed him how foolish that really was. Her heart wasn't something he could break, and he hadn't needed to anyway. She could open it whenever she chose, and just because she rarely did so didn't mean that its jeweled core didn't exist.

As cold as it seemed to not worry about her, worrying was the cruelest thing he could possibly do. Of all the things she could be to him, a source of doubt and bitterness was the last she would ever want.

But the same was true of him. He didn't want to be a source of pain to her, either. "On one condition," he said.

"Name it."

"That you do the same for me. That when you think of me, you think of me only as I am with you. No matter how scary it seems, I need you to believe that I will be all right."

Tears shone in her eyes as she smiled. "I promise. I'd already made up my mind…if I saw you again, I would ask you…because I've tried, but it's really hard." She blinked a bit too fast. "I think it will be easier if I have your promise, so when it gets hard, I can remember that."

If they both did it, then no matter what else happened to them, this happiness would never tarnish or fade. "I promise," he said.

She kissed him. "Thank you, Allen! Now it's your turn. What were you going to tell me?"

"Thank you," he said, his own tears getting the better of him, "for letting me get to know you. That's what I wanted to say."

"Don't you dare start crying, Allen Walker!" she warned.

"You're a fine one to talk!" He wiped his cheeks with the heel of his hand.

"But if you do, I will for real, and then my eyes will be all red."

She had a point. "Well, you mentioned something earlier that I wanted to ask you about."

"What?"

"What do you know about the Pope? And how did you find out?"

It worked. She laughed, the sadness replaced by mischief. "That is on a strictly need-to-know basis, and you…" She put her finger over his lips. "…don't need to know!"

He ran his tongue over her finger. "I'll get it out of you somehow!"

"No, you won't." She kissed him. "But by all means, do try your best!"

An hour later, they were both drenched in sweat and worse, and worn out to the point of hysterical laughter. Iona looked at the clock. "I need a bath. I can't start work like this."

"Me, too," he said. "You first." He knew she needed a lot of time to get dressed, and he wasn't ready to move yet. He wasn't even sure he could.

"Thanks." She got up, put her robe back on, and closed the door softly behind her.

He sighed, content, and looked around the room. It was small, barely enough for a wardrobe, dressing table, chest of drawers, the chaise and a small bed. Every possible surface was cluttered with hats or millinery supplies except for her dressing table, which was covered with jars and bottles.

He lay back and closed his eyes, not sleeping, not thinking, just drifting in blissful quiet. He opened his eyes when she kissed him, and pressed a clean towel into his hands. "Your turn! Three doors down, to the right."

He borrowed her robe, grabbed his clothes and went through his bag for bandages so he could change the dressing on his side.

When he came back to the room, the air was heavy with jasmine. Iona sat at her dressing table in a blue and white evening gown, putting something on her bruises that reminded him of Mana's grease paint. For that matter, the dress itself was just as much of a costume as Mana's clown suit, the corset and bustle underneath contorting her figure into a fashionable silhouette.

"Help yourself," she said, nodding toward a platter of food.

"Thank you" He reached for a piece of cheese. "I could use it. You've worn me out."

"I hope not, because I haven't finished with you yet! I assume you're looking for a game tonight?" she asked as she opened a pot of tinted cream and daubed it on her face, neck and chest, erasing all of the freckles from her nose and cheeks, and adding the finishing touches to her throat. If he hadn't known what to look for, he wouldn't have seen those fingermarks at all.

"Yes." There were a few people here he wanted to pay off.

"I know a guy." She followed the cream with powder.

"I'll go easy on him," Allen promised.

Iona smiled as she opened a small pot of kohl and picked up a fine paintbrush. "He cheats."

He watched, amused by the faces she made when she outlined her eyes. "Does he now?"

"Quite a lot, from what I hear." She smudged the lines at her eyes, softening them, before opening another pot, putting just a fingertip of pink powder on each cheek before blending it in something that looked like a shaving brush.

Allen laughed. "So you want to see which of the two of us is better?"

"Oh, I know which of the two of you is better!" She shot him a quick smile. "I just thought you might enjoy having an opponent you don't have to feel guilty about trouncing."

Watching Iona get ready for work was like watching Mana prepare for a show, but Iona worked on a stage of another kind. What she sold wasn't herself, it was a fantasy, the idea that a man could be the object of adoration by the closest thing one could find to feminine perfection on earth. It was a role she played, and it had routines and lines as structured and rehearsed as any circus act.

"How late are you working?" he asked.

"Around midnight, maybe later. My late-night tonight schedules two hours, but sometimes he goes to three." Iona pulled out a tube of lipstick, applied it, blotted it with a piece of flannel, then added a light dusting of powder before giving her mouth its final layer of color. "Come in through the kitchen. I'll let the servants know you're coming, and one of them will show you up."

"All right," he said. How late he'd be depended on how long he played and who he could pay off afterward, but this room was where she lived, not where she worked. He could come and go as he liked.

She examined herself, first from one side, then the other, her mouth in a critical line as she blotted a bit here and there. She didn't look made-up. Instead, she was completely transformed from a freckled teenaged girl into the ageless enchantment of a classical Venus. When she put up her hair, the effect was intensified, each curl that fell from the jeweled chignon painstakingly arranged so that they framed her face.

When she finished, she turned to Allen, and he smiled, remembering how embarrassed and angry he'd been when she showed up at his door on his fifteenth birthday looking like that. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the effect. He was just furious that his Master thought he should make that decision for them, because it wasn't one they would have come to on their own. The fantasy Iona sold wasn't something he wanted, and she wouldn't have offered it to him in any case. Her clients were mostly older men in dynastic marriages, or their sons who weren't ready to settle down yet.

When he explained that this wasn't his idea, she declared his Master an idiot and came in anyway, saying that as long as she spent some time with him, nobody would be the wiser, and it wasn't fair for him to be all alone on his birthday, especially since it was also Christmas. An hour later, they were sitting opposite each other on the floor, Allen minus his glove and scarf and Iona in her chemise, drawers and petticoat with her face freshly scrubbed playing beggar-my-neighbor, at which even Allen couldn't cheat. An hour after that, Iona sat with her arms wrapped around her legs and her cheek resting on her knees, looking uncharacteristically shy as she told him that she didn't want to go home. His hands were shaking as he told her that he didn't want her to.

She fished through her jewelry box for sapphire earrings, then put on a necklace to match, but she didn't ask him to clasp it for her. It wasn't that he rejected this part of her life, only that it didn't belong to him. What was his emerged after she'd shed her layers of costume and washed away all traces of the night, a freckled girl with a radiant smile and a heart of stone.


	6. A Few Blind Alleys off the Road to Hell

**Author's notes:**

GreenGreyBlue, how much would it creep you out to know that Artino was loosely based on a real person? In the 15th century, Gilles de Rais confessed to torturing and murdering children in very unpleasant ways. Estimates on his body count put it as high as the hundreds. Anyway, I appreciate the time you put into making your reviews so specific. You show me things about my writing that I don't always see myself.

Thank you, Animeloverx175, very much!

Sammi117, I worried about putting Iona into the story in that way. I didn't know what giving Allen a past like this would do, so your comment was very reassuring.

Okay, I need a bit of help. If Thursday's Child was being turned in for something official, I'm pretty sure I would be asked by the instructor or editor to omit this chapter. Stuff happens in it, including more indirect torture of Allen by Cross (although no bullets, sorry GGB!), and it does move him through that geographical area, but it does very little toward driving the plot, mostly offering (I hope!) a bit of character development. However, one thing I've learned from reading manga is that it's fun to watch the characters just interact with things for a while, whether it's each other or the world they live in, and while some attachment to the main plot is important in these story arcs, it doesn't have to be a death grip. Manga puts in a lot of what someone I once worked with called popcorn, enjoyable to read but not absolutely necessary, and yes, she made me take it all out. This chapter seems very popcorny to me, but then I start thinking that there's stuff in it that matters, and then I'm not sure. I also know that people who get to her level have often read and criticized so much that they read in a very different way, coming to prefer different things than what people who read for fun like, and then I'm in an even bigger muddle.

So...should I have taken this chapter out? Or was I right to leave it in? And in general, how do you feel about popcorn chapters?

And with that, I give you...

* * *

**A Few Blind Alleys off the Road to Hell**

"I think that's it for the day," Allen said. He had four hundred and fifty pounds in front of him and could probably double it, but he had a serious problem. There was a Demon in the house.

He noticed it when it came in a few minutes earlier, probably assessing its hunting grounds. He pretended to rub his eye, so as not to alarm the men around the table, but he caught a glimpse of the soul, a woman about the same age as the body it had taken. Not mother and daughter, but sisters? Friends? Maybe lovers? In any case, he had to deal with it before it did any damage.

"One more hand," said the man across the table from him.

His name was Edwin, and Allen knew the type all too well. Addicted to the big win, they could kill themselves gambling the way some men killed themselves with drink. Allen had no way of knowing how far gone this man was, but the look was familiar, desperation underlying that conviction that a streak of what they thought was bad luck was surely the precursor to a streak of good.

Allen gave his most disarming smile. "I'm afraid not."

"What, you have a bedtime, boy?" It was said as offensively as possible.

Allen hid wry laughter behind the smile. One of the most important skills in poker was being able to read your opponents, and this man couldn't do it. He didn't seem to understand what the others around the table probably knew or guessed, that Allen wasn't really the one pulling the strings. A kid didn't play like this without an adult in the background somewhere. "Something like that," Allen said.

"Just one more hand," Edwin insisted.

Allen shook his head, letting some of his regret show. Maybe it was just as well had had to leave. Even with Allen trying his best to cut this man some slack, he was losing badly.

"Let the kid go!" said the man to Allen's right, but he and Allen had been locking horns all afternoon. Once Allen left, he'd start winning.

Edwin eyed the neat pile in front of Allen, which had been carefully arranged to look like less than it was. Even so, it was more than anyone else had. "I don't think so! It's about time he started losing. Nobody's that lucky!"

The table went quiet.

"Hey!" It was clearly a friend, who had been putting up a valiant but dismal showing on Edwin's behalf. "Take it easy! You've been drinking."

All eyes went to Allen, who had just been implicitly accused of cheating, and although everyone knew that he must be, it was an accusation that couldn't be safely made without solid proof, which nobody had. Making it against a child was especially cowardly, since a child couldn't be expected to settle things out of doors.

"Maybe if I leave, the luck will pass to someone else," Allen said to Edwin with his brightest smile as he rose and gathered up his winnings.

"You hear that?" Edwin's friend said as the rest of the table breathed a sigh of relief. "Let him go. The game isn't over yet."

Edwin continued to grumble, but no one else objected as Allen left the room.

Once he got back to the garden where the rest of the guests were gathered, Allen pulled his scarf down over his eye, so as not to alarm anyone, and went looking for his Demon. It was possible that she was already gone, but Allen didn't think so. Whatever the soul had once been, the body was rather plain, the kind of girl men married, not the kind they had trysts in dark corners with. She would have different prey, probably women looking for a sympathetic confidante, which made Phoebe's set especially target-rich. While the men here competed financially, the women competed socially, and the tactics were just as cut-throat. It would be easy to befriend the losers, and no one would wonder too much where the poor women had gone when they disappeared.

The question was how Allen could isolate her. As far as he could tell, every European expat and tourist in Salonika was there, and even if he could locate both the Demon and Phoebe, it might not result in an introduction. Phoebe's invitations were so open-ended that she usually didn't know everyone at her parties. He would just have to play it by ear.

He found his Demon chatting with their hostess, the first real piece of luck he'd had all night. This would make it easy.

"Allen!" Phoebe smiled at him. "Done already? Did you leave them anything?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good!" she winked. "Don't want my parties to get a bad reputation. Mineral water, right? Maybe with a bit of lemon syrup?"

"Yes, thank you," Allen said.

Phoebe was one of his Master's lovers, the wife of an English lord's younger son, who kept this house as a place to escape from both his creditors and his family until they could come to an arrangement that didn't involve him. She was the perfect connection for a wandering card sharp, oblivious to anything that didn't directly contribute to her own amusement, and inclined to cure her boredom by throwing parties filled with equally bored, wealthy people for whom letting a kid into a poker game was a good lark.

She snagged the arm of a waiter and murmured the order in his ear before turning back to Allen. "What's wrong with your eye? You've got it all covered up."

"It's bothering me a bit today," he said. In fact, proximity to the Demon was making it spin in his head as if it was trying to worm its way out of the scarf.

"Probably the sun!" Phoebe said. "It's so bright here near the ocean, even this time of day."

"What happened to your eye?" the Demon asked with a maternal smile.

"It was injured when I was little," Allen said, "and it's a bit sensitive." To her especially, but there was no need to go into that kind of detail, not yet anyway.

"Oh, you must be the boy from the poker game!" the Demon said. "It was bothering you there, too, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Allen said.

"Oh!" their hostess said. "You haven't met! Hannah, this is Allen Walker, the ward of an old friend. Allen, this is Miss Hannah Morris. She just got out of mourning for her sister and is officially rejoining the world today."

Ah, so that was it! Sisters.

"Nice to meet you, young man!" the Demon said. "Where's your guardian? Was he one of those men playing poker?"

"Marion is a bit of a wanderer," Phoebe said airily before Allen could answer. " He left poor Allen…where did you say he left you this time?"

"India," Allen said.

"You came all the way from India by yourself?" the Demon asked, but now she looked speculative as she turned to Phoebe. "Is he staying with someone here?"

"Oh, no!" Phoebe said. "He paid me a surprise call this morning, so I invited him, but he's on his way to…where did you say you were going?" she asked Allen.

"England," he said.

There was more than speculation in the Demon's eyes, but from her point of view, Allen was perfect. An unaccompanied child, the half-blind ward of an absent, irresponsible man, was an ideal kill. Kids like him went missing all the time and no one ever knew, much less cared. "That's a long journey for a boy your age," she said.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll make it!" Allen did his best to look no older than twelve.

"Isn't he the cutest thing?" Phoebe asked as the waiter came over with a glass full of fizz, which she took and handed to Allen. "I had them put extra syrup in. I know what a sweet tooth you have!"

"Thank you," he said, glad Phoebe had mentioned it. It helped make him seem younger than he was.

"Oh, he is cute, but…" The Demon turned to Allen. "Where are you staying tonight?"

He already had a room at an inn in the city, but he said, "I'm not sure yet." Let her think he was sleeping in the streets!

"I'd let him stay with me, but if I know Allen, he won too much at poker for that to be such a good idea," Phoebe said. "I don't want people to think I really know him, if you know what I mean."

"You won?" the Demon asked.

"Well…" he said, looking briefly at the ground. Under his scarf, the eye was throbbing. _Patience!_ he told it.

"Ha!" Phoebe said. "He quit early. Usually, by the time he's finished, he hasn't left them with two pennies to rub together!"

At that moment, Allen could have kissed Phoebe who, in her heedlessness, had handed him over to the Demon on a silver platter. Not only would he not be missed, he was carrying a large amount of cash. From the Demon's point of view, he was fresh meat with a side of easy money. It didn't get much better than that.

"I know!" the Demon said brightly. "He can stay with me. I have plenty of room."

"Oh, isn't this just a stroke of luck for you, Allen!" Phoebe clapped her hands together. "You'll have someplace nice this time, instead of those awful places where Marion used to leave you. Oh, this is just perfect!"

_You have no idea_, Allen thought.

"In fact," the Demon said, "why don't I just take you home right now? You said your eye's bothering you. Perhaps you'd like to rest for a while."

"That's very kind of you," he said, "but I couldn't impose." Best to put up at least a small show of reluctance, but he also put a bit of pleading into his expression.

"Oh, not at all! I'd be delighted, really!"

_I'd put everything I just won on that, _Allen thought. "Only if you're sure," he said.

"Poor dear isn't used to anyone fussing over him," Phoebe said. "Marion is such a disaster as a guardian."

"Well then, why don't I make up for it a bit?" the Demon said with a sweet, maternal smile that fit the face perfectly. "Do you have any things with you?"

"No," he said, although it wasn't entirely true. He'd left his suitcase in his room.

"Oh, my! Well, why don't we start by letting you lie down for a bit, maybe a cold compress for that eye."

"Oh, Hannah, you're so clever!" Phoebe gushed. "I would never have thought of that. Just the thing!"

"Come with me, Allen," the Demon said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "I'll get you fixed right up!"

"Thank you very much," Allen said with a slight bow.

"Oh, isn't he adorable!" Phoebe said. "Go ahead, Allen, and if I don't see you before you go, tell Marion I said hello." She winked.

"I will," Allen said, pretending to be oblivious to the wink. "Thank you."

They were several streets away, well clear of Phoebe's house, before the Demon made her move. "How about a little adventure?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Allen asked.

"See that alley?" she pointed down a narrow corridor that cut perpendicular to the street. "It's a short cut. My house is just on the other side. How brave do you feel?"

"Pretty brave," he said, trying to look like he wasn't but was pretending to be to impress her.

"Then let's take the alley. It's a lot faster."

It was also a perfect place to kill someone. "All right," Allen said.

There was a shed protruding into the alley, and as soon as they got around it, Allen heard the grind and crunch of a Demon taking on its natural form. He responded instinctively, springing his own trap, invoking his arm and reaching inside, looking for the chain that tied the soul to the machine.

"Exorcist?" it gasped as his clawed fist punched through its ribs and grabbed at that chain.

"Yes," he said, and with his right hand, he pulled the scarf away from his eye, looking at the soul that struggled against its bindings. "I can see you. I can see that you're scared, but you're going to be fine."

"You can see me?" The soul's voice echoed in his head.

He felt a link break. "Yes, I can."

"Allen Walker? You're…" the soul whispered as a second link broke, severing the chain completely, and he hid his face against the explosion that followed.

"Goodbye," he said softly, before squaring his shoulders and walking back to the street. He had a few people to pay off, then he fully intended to at least try to get a good night's sleep.

When he finally headed back to what was passing for home that evening, he was wishing he'd stayed and played poker longer. He'd kept only enough of what he'd won to get him through to Üsküb, but nobody was happy with him and he didn't blame them. He'd really needed to double his winnings in there, and he snarled under his breath at the Demon. Yes, Demons were his job but unfortunately, so were his Master's creditors. Trying to juggle both meant dropped balls here and there.

He was a block away from the inn before someone hit him in the face.

He staggered back, and was grabbed from behind by two men who pulled him into an alley, which was fine with him because it took the fight off the street. There were four of them, so it was going to get messy. He grabbed hold of the arms that held him and used them as leverage to plant both feet into the midsection of the man in front of him, then hung onto his captors as they staggered and fell, using them to cushion the impact before rolling backwards to his feet. Amateurs. That would help. Tim flew free of his pocket and hovered well above the fight, both getting clear and waiting to see if he'd be needed.

One man was gasping, the wind knocked out of him, and the others fanned out, still after him but more cautiously now. Allen maneuvered to put the wall behind him, waiting for someone to swing, then he sidestepped, grabbed the arm, and slammed the owner into the wall, rolling under another fist and landing a kick to the side of somebody's knee. There was a yell of pain as the man went down, and Allen hoped that he hadn't broken anything.

Allen regained his feet, blocked a wild roundhouse, and slammed the heel of his hand into the attacker's nose, feeling the crunch of cartilage as he did. A quick turn and twist of an arm dropped the man, and he lay there, clutching his face.

Two down for sure, two maybes, and one of the maybes aimed a right hook at Allen's jaw, the man he'd introduced to the wall. Apparently, he was a slow learner, because he swung exactly the same way he had before, as if assuming Allen's throw was a fluke. The second throw laid him out on his back, cradling his head where it hit the pavement.

The fourth man had gotten his wind back, but there was no fight in the look he gave Allen, only fear before he turned and ran. Two others pulled themselves to their feet and staggered out after him as fast as they could.

Allen filled his lungs and let it out slowly, once, twice, trying to slow his racing heart. He hated these fights. They were stupid and futile from start to finish, but inevitable all the same. Tim drifted back down and sat on his head, which made him look up even though it was pointless, but in doing so, he saw the man he'd thrown still lying on the ground. He'd moved, but only enough to roll to his side.

Allen knelt beside him. "Are you all right?"

The man flinched.

"I'm not going to hurt you! I just want to make sure you're all right."

"I think you cracked my skull!" he groaned.

"I'm sorry," Allen said. "I didn't mean to throw you that hard. Can you sit up?"

"I don't know. I feel sick."

Shit! He really had overdone it. "Can you see okay?"

The man blinked. "I'm a little dizzy."

"Can you remember what happened?" Allen asked.

"All too well!" the man groaned. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Here and there," Allen said. "Let's get you up! I need to have a look at your eyes."

"Who are you?" the man asked as he braced his hands on the pavement to support himself.

"Allen Walker," Allen said. It wasn't the kind of answer the man was looking for, but that answer didn't exist. "I think you'll be all right. Your pupils are evenly dilated." At least that had been Cross's criterion for evaluating head injuries, and since Allen was still on his feet and in his right mind, it couldn't be too far off.

"Why are you helping me?"

"I told you. I didn't mean to throw you that hard." Allen glanced up at Tim, who was fluttering being the injured man, but the golem showed no sign of alarm. This, too, was a good sign.

"What did you do to the others?"

"They walked away." Then Allen took a closer look at his victim. "Wait, you were at Phoebe's party, Edwin's friend, Hugo," he said as he put it together. "How did you find me?"

"Between your hair and your scar, it wasn't difficult. We just asked around at the inns."

Shit! Allen was going to need to find another room in another part of the city.

"How old are you anyway?" Hugo asked as he pulled himself up.

"Fifteen," Allen said.

"Jesus!" Hugo sat on the pavement, his head in his hands. "You cleaned all of us out at the table, and kicked the shit out of four grown men. What kind of person do you have to be to be like that at fifteen?"

"I didn't clean you out," Allen said hotly. His day would have been a lot easier if he had.

The man sighed. "No, you didn't, not quite, but only because you didn't want to. You never lost control of that game the way you never lost control of the fight."

"I couldn't afford to," Allen said. "I'm not interested in being found dead here in the morning. That's what you had in mind, wasn't it?"

"I just wanted Edwin's money back," Hugo said. "We weren't going to kill you."

Allen patted his jacket. "Right here. There's about a hundred pounds left."

"Yeah." Hugo gave a short bark of laughter. "You'd turn me into mincemeat. Bloody hell! When you came in, I thought you were the sweetest kid I'd ever seen, and it was a shame about that eye. I didn't stop to think that maybe there was a reason you were still on your feet after a scar like that."

"You thought I was an easy mark," Allen said.

"It's part of how you played us, isn't it. Why? Jesus, you're just a kid!"

"Because I have no choice," Allen said.

"There has to be a choice!"

"Not for me," Allen said tightly.

"But surely there must be another way for you to make a living! Do you really need that much? You walked away with almost five hundred pounds! You could live on that while you learn an honest trade. What happens when you get on the wrong side of someone bigger than we are?"

"I already have," Allen said, "and if I don't make a hell of a lot more, it's going to get worse."

He whistled. "How could a kid owe so much?"

"I'm an orphan," Allen said. "The man who took me in likes the high life."

"And he leaves you to pay his debts." Hugo shook his head.

"Yeah. And you don't want to know how much that is or the kind of people he owes. I can't even make enough at poker to cover it."

"Jesus!" Hugo's head seemed clearer, but he still wasn't trying to get his feet under him. "I need that money. Edwin has a problem. He can't stop playing. The deeper into debt he goes, the more convinced he gets that the only way out is to keep playing until he wins big. I can't convince him that it doesn't work that way." He glance sideways at Allen. "Unless you cheat."

"It's a dirty game," Allen said, "and the more money involved, the dirtier it gets. He needs to stop playing. He isn't good enough."

"I know. He's just thinks that if he plays long enough, his luck will change."

"When there's that much money on the table," Allen said, "luck doesn't play a very large part in the outcome."

"What's your secret, kid? How do you do it?"

Allen laughed. "I'll tell you, but it won't help. My secret is that your friend and I are opposites. He doesn't care whether or not he loses, he just lives for the high of winning and he'll do anything for that high, including lose far more than he can afford. I'm the other way around. I don't care about winning, but I'll do anything to avoid losing."

"Including cheating," Hugo said bitterly.

"Only if I have to," Allen said. He would never play poker with this man again, so there was no harm in admitting it. "But if I have to, I do."

"But what about the fight?" Hugo. "Didn't you want to win that?"

"No," Allen said. "I just wanted to walk out of here in once piece." He sighed. "I told you you wouldn't understand. Look, you lost here for the same reason you lost at the table. You had everything riding on winning, and you never lost sight of what you thought you'd gain if you did. You were thinking so hard about it that you didn't think about losing at all, and didn't realize it was happening in time. If you had, you would have known the fight was mine as soon as you failed to restrain me. It's the same with poker. If you were going to keep playing, you should have folded on your bad hands instead of trying to mark the cards."

"You noticed?" At least he had good grace to look ashamed.

"Hard not to, and it was a waste of time. The deck was already marked."

"That deck was marked? But it was unopened!"

"Some decks are printed that way. Upper left-hand corner. Slight variations in the patterns on the backs of the cards will tell you if it's marked. Usually easy to see if you can riffle them. Suspect it if they don't let you."

Hugo sighed. "Was anyone in there playing an honest game?"

"No," Allen said. "Look, you have to get your friend out. He needs to cut his losses before they get any worse."

"I know, but he's gone through his money and most of his wife's, and he's borrowing from friends. If he stops now, he's ruined."

"He's already ruined," Allen said, his heart sinking. He had no problem with fleecing organized crime or the kind of men who considered five hundred pounds to be pocket change, but men like Edwin not only destroyed their own lives, they took their friends and family down with them. No wonder Hugo had been desperate enough to stage an ambush! Allen wondered how much Edwin had borrowed from him. "If he's lost that much, he'll never be able to recoup it gambling."

"Maybe I should have brought him with us," Hugo said. "You could have broken his legs or something, so he couldn't play anymore."

"Sometimes that's what it takes," Allen said. "I've seen it enough to know that."

Hugo looked at Allen, realization mixed with shock apparent on his face. "You probably have, haven't you. My God, I just realized…I just stooped so low as to try to beat up a kid for money! What have I become? I…" He looked at his hands. "I have a little boy of my own! What's happening to me?"

The same thing that happened to everyone else, Allen thought. The road to Hell wasn't clearly marked, and one was often at the door before one realized how far along it one had come. "You can stop it," he said, "before it's too late."

"How?"

"Same way you do in poker. You fold."

"It feels like giving up."

"Which is worse? Sitting out a hand or losing everything?" Allen lifted his scarf, pushing his hair back from his forehead, and the man gaped. "I once wanted something so badly that I was willing to do anything for it. That's what I got."

"Jesus!" the man said. "What did that?"

"The person I hurt with what I did. Believe me, I deserved it!" Allen pulled his scarf down before standing and offering the man a hand up. "Go home to your family." He aimed his next comment well below the belt, but sometimes that was what it took. "Nothing you could possibly win would be worth risking your son ending up like me."

"My God, kid, that's a terrible way to put it!" Hugo took Allen's hand, but he stood under his own power. "I can't even tell you to go home, can I. You don't really have one, not with a guardian like that!"

Mother's church was the closest thing Allen had ever had to a home, and he was going from there to Headquarters, which should at least offer a consistent place to sleep. "I do. It's where I'm going now."

"I have a feeling that I shouldn't believe you," Hugo said, his eyes troubled, "but I also have a feeling that there's nothing I can do to help."

"I have a long way to go," Allen said, "but I've come a long way, too." At least he hoped he had. "I'll be fine."

Hugo shook his head. "I'm sorry, kid, not just for what I did but for what I said. I don't know why I ever thought a child would choose to live this way. You really should be in school, or apprenticed somewhere, but the world's just that bloody awful. Take care of yourself, and try to forgive the rest of us for failing you. I'm sorry for my part in that, I truly am."

"Thank you," Allen said.

When the man had gone, Allen slumped against the wall, blinking back tears. It was one thing to use an opponent's strength against him. A contest like that was exhilarating, but exploiting an opponent's weakness was different. Edwin's addiction to the thrill of winning made him weak. There was no sport in beating him, any more than there was sport in pecking out the eyes of the dying.

Allen hated being someone who pushed men like Edwin into the pit, put their wives and children a little closer to poverty and their friends closer to bankruptcy. True, if it wasn't him, it would be someone else, but he hated the fact that it was sometimes him.

_Fuck you, Master._

_Not my fault idiots like him play._

_No, it's your fault that I have to._

_It's not like I'm holding a gun to your head._

_You might as well be. _Allen had tried other things, but he couldn't make enough money at anything else to both eat and make a dent in his Master's debts.

_Now you're just whining. You know better than to come to me with your problems._

Allen knew that all too well. More than once, it had landed him on his back, until he learned to roll out of his Master's throws.

It hadn't been that bad of a day, not really, but the final task of looking for a new place to sleep seemed overwhelming, as if Allen were a very tired camel faced with a driver who kept saying, "Come on, it's just one straw!" More than anything, he wished he could act like a camel, spit in the face of the driver and sit down, refusing to move until the load was lightened. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the wall and looked at Timcanpy, who hovered just in front of him.

"All right, Tim," he said. "Let's get this day over with!"


	7. Ships, Passing

**Author's Notes:**

I finished this chapter as fast as I could (which sadly was not very fast!), so I could thank everyone for weighing in so thoughtfully on the popcorn chapter/filler episode question. Your collective insights into why they're good, and even necessary, are a wonderful antidote to the pressure-cooker style I learned. Thank you, very much, everyone.

Sammi117, Allen is one of my favorite characters ever written, too, so it makes me very happy to hear that I'm still not mangling him in your eyes. If this kind of chapter helps with that, it stays.

EsTeLweNadia, the idea of taking a break from the main story arc for a while hadn't occurred to me, but you're right. That's part of what filler episodes do, and why they're fun.

Along those lines, GreenGreyBlue, you're right, too. Constant action isn't realistic, and there's a very real risk of good things being cut trying to maintain it. On the male and female competition thing, I'm glad I didn't need to say more because I was afraid I'd understated it.

Animeloverx175, Do popcorn chapters provide a different kind of character development than plotty ones? I'm thinking maybe they do.

Twi-Red-Ruxi, I'm glad once again that I'm not mangling Allen in the eyes of someone who loves him. I also suck at plotting, something I'm struggling to fix. These fics are my first serious attempt at outlining before I start writing instead of writing character blather and then patching together some kind of plot out of it. And Hugo's line, I was hoping that would sting!

Anyway, now I'm dreading hitting the Add Chapter button because every time I put something up, I find half a dozen mistakes and have to go in and fix them!

And I've had to, as it turns out! This story refers to Chapter 207 of the manga, which makes it a potential spoiler or source of confusion.

* * *

**Ships, Passing**

He should have taken the damned train.

He didn't because flooding along the South Morava River had wiped out a sizable chunk of the line, with repairs expected to take at least another week. Allen had a strong disinclination to stay in one place for that long, and saw no need to in any case. It wouldn't take him a week to get to Nis on foot, and he could get a train from there to Belgrade.

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. The railway and the road both followed the path of the river, which meant that it wasn't just the track that was out. Parts of the road were, too, and there were delays as paths were cleared and people were allowed through. It was slow, wet going, and passing vehicles, with the splashing of wheels and horses' hooves, didn't help things any.

The road itself, however, was magnificent, cutting through gorges so thickly wooded that sometimes it seemed like he was walking through a tunnel of trees. Small villages clung to the sides of the mountains or nested in valleys, clusters of cottages with barns, henhouses, pigsties, gardens and goat pens. From the knee down, everything was mud, fallen branches, the undersides of animals, his own legs, but everything above that had been washed clean by the rain, emerald leaves, white plaster walls, silver-grey roof shingles, all glowing golden in the setting sun.

He was aiming for one of the villages large enough to be marked on the map, hopefully large enough to have an inn. It was getting late, and although he'd slept rough more than once, he preferred not to do it if he could help it, especially not in places where there might be wolves or bears. Human predators he could handle. Animals, he wasn't so sure about. Thankfully, there was only one road. As long as he kept walking along it in the same direction, even he couldn't get lost.

There was a flash of white among the trees and he stopped, unsure if he'd seen something moving or if it was a cluster of wildflowers. No, there was something out there. Not a bear, it was the wrong color. A wolf, maybe?

It was a little girl, far too young to be out in the woods alone, and she peeked out at him from behind a tree.

"Hey!" he called. "Are you lost?" Not that it mattered. He spoke no Serbian and he doubted she spoke anything he did.

She waved. He waved back. "Where's your mum?" he tried in Russian, but she didn't answer. She just waved again.

Fuck! Now what? He stood there, waiting to see what she would do, but she seemed to be doing the same thing. There was no sign of an adult or even an older sibling, but given her age and the hour, there had to be a village nearby where someone was worried sick. If he could convince her to go with him, maybe there was a chance of finding her parents, or finding someone who knew them. He held out his hand. "Will you come with me?" he called in German, for lack of anything else to try. "You'll get hurt out here alone."

She nodded once, then moved deeper into the wood.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Come back!"

Timcanpy lifted off Allen's head and flew toward the girl.

"Tim, can you get her?" Allen asked as he followed. Children usually found Tim just as fascinating as cats did. Maybe she'd follow the golem if she wouldn't follow him.

Instead, it appeared to be working the other way around. She went even further into the trees, Tim just behind her.

"Damn it, Tim! What are you doing?" he grumbled, but he had no choice but to go after them, so he did

He saw his golem before he saw the girl, who was so far away that the quick glimpse he caught of her dress could have been a trick of the light. Tim waited for Allen to catch up, then flew off in pursuit, leaving Allen cursing under his breath as he wiped a spider web off his cheek.

There was something odd about that girl, something about the way she moved that didn't look right, but every time he got close, she went ahead again, looking back only long enough to be sure he was behind her. He had to watch his step, as there were branches and holes hidden under layers of fallen leaves, but she seemed to know exactly where she was going and never stumbled, which was strange for a child so tiny she could barely walk.

A fallen tree blocked her path. She put her hands on it for a moment as if considering climbing, and the pause gave Allen a chance to get closer. She looked at him, her eyes blinking slowly, her mouth unmoving. The last whispers of dusk shown too bright on her face, not just a porcelain complexion, but porcelain itself.

He froze, staring at her, unable to believe what he was seeing. This wasn't a child at all. It was a doll.

He could no longer see the road, and it was almost dark.

"Tim!" he said, panicking. "Help me!"

Tim flew in a circle around his head, then went forward, following the doll.

Did the golem know what was happening? Because Allen didn't, and as night fell, his fear mounted. He was lost without the sun to orient himself, and while he knew that sailors could navigate by the stars, he'd never learned how, and the canopy overhead was so thick that he couldn't see them anyway. Sometimes, when the wind picked up, he caught glimpses of the moon, but wasn't just a poor guide, it was no guide at all, offering just enough light so he could catch low branches before they lashed his face.

Wind rustled through leaves, small things scuttled through the underbrush, creatures called to each other in voices like the cries of ghosts. Fuck, he was lost, he was completely lost, then through the trees ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of that tiny figure surrounded by a faint light, as if she was something from a fairy tale, but in fairy tales, the wrong decision was fatal. Only the pure of heart survived, and if there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that he was not pure of heart.

He could die here, of starvation if he ended up going in circles, or of something as simple as a broken ankle because there was no one around to hear a cry for help. Predators were more merciful. At least they tried to kill as quickly as they could.

A flash of white. He moved toward it, knowing as he did that by the time he reached that spot, it would be gone.

He stumbled out into a clearing and looked around in the moonlight. There was a fence ahead of him, which meant people. No sign of the doll, but it no longer mattered. Someone here would have a bed for the night, or even a hayloft. He followed the fence line to a corner, then followed it in toward the looming shadows of houses with their warm, lamplit windows.

When he was within sight of the lane, he stopped short, his eye blazing to life. Bloody fucking hell! Every house was full of Demons. The cries of chained souls echoed in his skull, and his arm awoke in a flash of green, firing its bloodlust through his veins. He'd been led there, to kill or to be killed? It didn't matter. Now that he was there, he would fight.

He went to the nearest door, wrenched it off its hinges, and destroyed four Demons before they had a chance to shed their human forms.

It was easy because they weren't expecting him, but when he went back outside, they were waiting, a battalion of bloated shapes obscuring the stars. He stayed in the shelter of the doorway as he swiped at them, ripping two of them open, but it didn't protect him for long. The back of the house fell in with a crash, and then they were behind him as well as in front of him, something slamming into his shoulder even as he ducked. A blood bullet. He rolled to the side and sprinted for the next house, pushing the door open and throwing himself inside, hoping he could burn out the virus before they dropped the roof on him. One second, two, three, four, then he heard metallic screams, the roar of guns, and dove back out as the entire structure collapsed, reaching forward with his claw as he got to his feet, tearing through skin and metal, maiming what he could not kill, rolling clear of another barrage of gunfire before marking as many Demons as he could for Cross Grave.

There was no time to think or plan, only to do what the moment required, attack, parry, evade and then attack again in an endless, punishing assault, unchained souls drifting upward from the mechanical carnage like stringless kites. Twice more he had to run, buy himself a few seconds to purge his system of the virus, and once he thought it was over, only to find his eye still burning in its socket, pulling at him until he found the ambush waiting at the far end of the lane.

He'd used Cross Grave so much that he was starting to feel sick. Even so, he marked eight more Demons and whispered the command, falling to his knees as explosions ripped through the sky, filling the air with wood, shingles, hay and packed earth, and then his eye finally went still.

He sat there in the mud, bent forward and gasping, clutching his shirt sleeve over his mouth and nose as smoke from the Demons billowed toward the moon. Bits of paper drifted past him and he picked one up, but it was too dark to read it. He was dizzy with exhaustion, coughing as soot and poison raked his throat, and his left arm was shaking. He'd never used it that much before, and it ached all the way into his chest. "Tim?" he asked, looking around.

A now-familiar flash of white. The doll. She came out from behind a ruin and went to him, Timcanpy fluttering just above her. Her nose was chipped, her feet and legs were dirty, her hair was tangled, and her dress was torn and stained, but she balanced perfectly on her loose joints as she blinked at him.

"Hello," he said and he forced himself to his feet. "You brought me here for this, didn't you. Are you happy or sad now?"

She lifted her hand, nudging his fingers with hers.

"All right, I'll go with you." He had nowhere else to go, and he was too tired to care if he lived or died. Whatever happened this night, would happen.

She led him to a house that still had most of its roof. Allen looked up apprehensively, listening for the creaks and groans of structural instability, but as far as he could tell, it was sound. The doll struggled to open the door, her porcelain hands slipping on the knob until Allen brushed them away and turned it, letting himself into what had once been a kitchen that opened into a small living room. Perhaps a few hours ago it had been swept and tidy, but now it was a wreck of scattered pots and bits of broken crockery. He picked his way through the domestic flotsam as she led him to another door.

It opened into a bedroom. The explosions had knocked over bottles, a lamp and a pitcher, littering the floor with shards and filling the air with the smells of paraffin and lavender. The bed had been neatly made, an embroidered quilt spread over it, and the doll clambered up and sat there, blinking expectantly at him.

"All right," he said. He was filthy, but there was nothing to be done about it at that time of night. He stripped off his clothes, not wanting to sleep in all that mud, shook the dust off the quilt, and curled up between the sheets. The doll nestled in the curve of his left arm, and the weapon hummed in a way he'd never heard before, a strange, unearthly harmony, the cross in his hand glowing especially bright. He would have wondered about this, too, but he was too tired to do anything but pass out.

—V—

Lavi let out a long, low whistle. "Woah, Yu, what the fuck?"

"Don't call me that, you worthless rabbit!" Kanda had been losing that battle since it began, but he refused to give in.

"Seriously, it looks like somebody brought a couple of Howitzers in here! How the hell did this happen?"

"How should I know?" Kanda surveyed the remains of the tiny village, houses, sheds and barns reduced to broken teeth poking up from scorched earth, their shadows distorted by the dawn. Something had come through here, certainly, but what?

"Yu, could this be the Innocence?" Lavi asked, scratching his head under his headband.

"Goddamn it, don't call me that!" Kanda raged. He was just as confused as Lavi, and he didn't like being confused. "And no it wasn't the Innocence, not unless it was in the hands of an Exorcist."

"The only ones in this part of Europe right now are us," Lavi said, "unless you snuck out at night and did all this without me." Lavi put in an air of pained insult. "Yu, how could you! Am I not good enough for you?"

"Shut up, you idiot!" Kanda said, searching with more than his eyes, feeling through the wreckage for those whispers of thought and mood that indicated life. Nothing. If there was anyone here, they were unconscious or dead. There weren't even any bodies, just bits of scorched and twisted metal that he recognized as the remains of Demons. "This makes no fucking sense! None at all!"

"Maybe the Innocence found someone," Lavi suggested. "Maybe we're looking for an Accommodator now."

"Are you insane?" Kanda swept his arm out to encompass as much of the wreckage as possible. "The Finders said that the entire village was infested. For an Accommodator to do this, they'd need a high synchronization rate, a proper weapon and training with that weapon. Some worthless fool who just synchronized with a raw Innocence would have been dead in minutes."

"Parasite type?"

"Even less likely. Do you know how much of a shock to the system that is? They have an even harder time at first than we do."

"Got any other ideas?" Lavi asked, scratching under his headband.

"No, but your idea is ridiculous."

"So is this!" Lavi said. "What about General Cross? A General could do this, yeah?"

"Cross?" Kanda snorted. "Even if he's around, which I doubt, he wouldn't be this stupid. It would put the Order on his trail." It was true. As soon as he and Lavi made their report, the Order would be scouring Serbia for signs of General Cross.

"This is downright creepy!" Lavi said.

Kanda took a deep breath and let it out slowly, battling against doubt that was trying to become fear. "It isn't our problem. We're here to retrieve the Innocence, not figure out who wrecked the place."

"Yeah, okay, but where do we start?"

"We start right here," Kanda said, wrenching open the door of a building that still had one.

"Watch it, Yu! That could collapse."

"Who cares?" Kanda asked, stepping back as a beam dropped out of the ceiling. "It can collapse all it wants. There's nothing in there."

"Nothing in here, either," Lavi said, poking his head more cautiously into the remains of a house. "On to the next…oh, shit! What's that?"

Kanda turned, his hand on Mugen's hilt, but it was only a baby, toddling towards them on chubby legs. As it got closer, he realized it was a doll, life-sized, battered now, but once expensive and lovely. It picked its way easily over the rubble-strewn road, its blue eyes slowly blinking as it looked at them.

"I'll be damned!" Lavi said with another low whistle. "I think we found the Innocence. Or it found us. Come here, little one! We've been looking for you."

It came toward them, lifting its arms to be picked up, and Lavi obliged, picking a leaf out of its hair. "Yu, are you sure it couldn't do this? It has a body. Kind of."

No. Kanda knew that wasn't possible, but the presence of the doll just made things even more uncanny. What would have found this village at night, killed all of the Demons, and then vanished, leaving the Innocence behind? Nothing, in his experience, but nothing about this made sense, and more than anything, Kanda wanted to get the hell out of there, back to where things made sense. "A body isn't enough. It needs an Accommodator, and that's not an Accommodator. Now take the Innocence and let's go!"

Lavi looked at the wide, blue eyes that blinked slowly at him, once, twice. "I bet you have quite a story to tell," he said to it, "and I'd give anything to hear it."

It blinked again, but its painted mouth was still.

Kanda snarled and grabbed the doll by the hair, yanking its head off.

"Jesus, Yu! Easy!" The doll's body went limp, and Lavi set it down.

"We have a mission," Kanda said, looking into the head before knocking it hard with Mugen's hilt. It shattered in his hand, leaving behind an Innocence, which he tucked it into one of the pouches on his belt. "And it's not like it could talk. Let's go!"

"Hang on," Lavi said, looking over the village one more time.

"We're not looking for survivors. We'll tell them when we get back to town and they can send a search party."

"Shut up, Yu-chan!"

Kanda lost several seconds to furious spluttering, most of it revolving around a burning desire to kill his fellow Exorcists beginning with the one in front of him. When would Komui get it through his head that Kanda worked best alone?

Lavi exhaled. "I'm done. You can stop swearing now."

Kanda glared at him, the light finally dawning. "Were you recording this?"

Lavi smiled. "Just making a few notes."

"Why?"

"Come on, Yu! Something weird happened here. Aren't you even the slightest bit…hang on, what's this?"

"What's what?"

Lavi backtracked toward a broken fence, kneeling in the grass. "It's a suitcase."

"So the fuck what? People lived here once. They owned suitcases."

"But why leave it here?" Lavi opened it. "Oh, now that's strange!" he said as he looked through the contents.

"What is?"

"There's a suture kit in here, and a bottle of carbolic."

"Probably a visiting doctor who got killed by the Demons."

"Why would a doctor visit a village of Demons? And that doesn't explain the clothes," Lavi said. "They're too small for a grown man."

"Maybe he had a son," Kanda said, impatient. "We have the Innocence. Why do you need to poke around in that?"

"Because I'm curious." Lavi shut the suitcase and rose, following Kanda down the lane. "Occupational hazard."

The presence of the Bookmen among the Exorcists had never sat well with Kanda. He didn't care for divided loyalties, although he would grudgingly admit that for the most part they did their jobs. Bookman was pretty good with his needles and Lavi was learning, although he was too easy-going for Kanda's liking. This was the first time Kanda had seen him so focused, the first time Kanda really believed he was a Bookman.

"What are you doing here?" Kanda asked.

Lavi's cocked his eyebrow. "Um…I'm on a mission with you. Are you feeling all right?"

"I mean what are the Bookmen doing in the Order!"

Lavi laughed. "We're here to record history. That's what we do."

"So why weren't you here ten years ago?" Kanda asked. "Or twenty or thirty? The war was going on then. Why is it history now, but not then?"

Lavi gave him a look filled with sarcastic grudging admiration. "Wow, logic! Not bad, Yu! Not bad!"

"Goddamn it, stop calling me that!"

"But it's your name!"

"I'm going to cut your fucking head off if you don't stop using it!"

"Easy there!" Lavi skipped to the side. "No killing the Bookman! That will get you into heaps of trouble, yeah?"

"I don't care," Kanda growled, but he did care. He knew what they would do to him if he got out of control. So did Lavi, which was how he got away with so much shit. "And you haven't answered my Goddamned question. Why are you here?"

Lavi walked in silence, smiling to himself.

"Rabbit!" Kanda warned.

Lavi chuckled. "No harm in telling you, I suppose. You'll find out soon enough."

"What!"

"We're waiting," Lavi said simply.

"Waiting for what?"

Lavi smiled, his green eye bright with anticipation. "History. What else?"

"What are you talking about?" Kanda demanded.

Lavi laughed, but there was something perilous running through his glee. "History's coming, Yu-chan, and you're going to have a ringside seat!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" A chill ran down Kanda's spine, raising the hair on his arms.

"Just sit back and enjoy the show! It's not like you have a choice!" Lavi was still smiling, but the aura surrounding him was like the river Styx, a thick flow of blood carrying wooden boats rowed by corpses, their lanterns bobbing in the murk like signal lights.

Kanda cursed under his breath and picked up his pace, doing his best to leave Lavi behind. He had a job to do. History could go fuck itself.

—V—

Allen woke to sunlight streaming through the window. He checked his watch. Nearly 8:00 am. He couldn't remember ever having slept that long uninterrupted.

He pulled himself out of bed, rubbing his eyes, cursing as he got dirt in them. Why had he not washed up before he went to sleep? Oh, right. He'd fallen asleep in the middle of in a battle zone with an animated doll.

Wait. Where was it? He looked around wildly, but saw no sign of it.

Well, maybe he'd dreamed that part.

He wondered if he'd bothered to dream up any food. Or water. Preferably a lot of it. He was dirty as well as thirsty.

He stretched, surprised at how little his muscles objected, and got to his feet, feeling blissfully clear-headed. He flexed his left hand, testing it. It had gotten pretty worn out the night before, but it seemed to have recovered just fine. He glared at his clothes, which were caked with filth, but put on enough to be decent before he made his way to the door.

When he got outside, he whistled. He didn't realize that the battle had been so destructive, but between the explosions of dying Demons and the force of his own arm, the tiny village had been battered beyond recognition. Roofs had been destroyed, walls had been toppled, and the plaster skins of buildings had been ripped away, exposing their wooden skeletons and hardened mud flesh. He called out, but no one answered, and he didn't expect anyone to. The only bodies he found were of a pig and a few chickens that seemed to have gotten caught in the crossfire.

The first thing he did was go looking for his suitcase, which he seemed to have dropped near the fence the night before. Next, he raided a few pantries for breakfast. It felt like stealing, but there was no one alive to care.

At the end of the lane was a sort of village square that had a well at the center of it, and he pulled up a bucket of water, stripping down to his skin to bathe, since there was no one around to see. He fished trousers and a shirt out of his bag and dressed before hunting down a washboard and tub, hanging his clothes on someone's line when they were finally clean.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a perfect mix of blue and clouds, the sun shone warm on his face, and Timcanpy made playful, lazy loops in the air. A few stray chickens pecked at the ground, unconcerned with the remains of the chaos the night before, and a goat wandered into an adjacent garden, where it nibbled on somebody's cabbages.

He felt like the last man left alive on earth. He sat down on what used to be somebody's back steps, took out his deck of cards and began to shuffle, practicing, waiting until his clothes dried.

About half an hour into it, Allen heard someone shouting. He thought about answering, but realized he had no way of explaining who he was or what he was doing there. He put the cards away and got to his feet, slipping around the side of the house. There were five men in the clothes of farmers or tradesmen, probably a search party, armed and a looking badly shaken. He stayed hidden and let them pass. They took their time, opening every door, but in the end they left with nothing but stray livestock. Breathing a sigh of relief, Allen sat back down with his cards.

When his clothes were dry, he put them away and snapped the latches on his suitcase closed with a sense of finality. The lane would take him in the wrong direction, but every road went somewhere, and once he got someplace with a station, he would take the Goddamned train!

He was nearly clear of the village when he saw the doll. It was lying in what had once been someone's front garden, an inanimate jumble of body and limbs, the shattered remains of its head discarded a few feet away. Allen bent down, frowning, and picked up fragments of the face. Had the search party done this? Had someone else? Or had it always been like that, and he'd been dreaming when he went into the woods?

No. No way would he go into those trees without a damned good reason.

"What happened, Tim?" he asked.

Tim flew ahead, then flew back to him.

"Sometimes I wish you could talk," Allen said. "You'd have a lot of explaining to do." He let the bits of porcelain fall from his hand, got to his feet, and started walking.

* * *

___Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,_

_Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness;_

_So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,_

_Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. _

_-_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,_ The Theologian's Tale; Elizabeth_


	8. To Him That is Ready to Perish

**Added July 6 FYI: **I've been trying to maintain a weekly update schedule, give or take a day or two, but I won't be able to maintain that any longer. Some problems with my hands have become more severe. I saw my doctor and an occupational therapist, and I'm making changes to my workstation, but the bottom line is that I still have to slow down. To make matters worse, my area got hit by severe storms, and we've been without power for over 24 hours. My files are on my desktop, so I'm dead in the water until the power company cleans up the mess.

However, "slow down" is not the same as stop. The next chapter is nearly ready, and the others are written, they just need revision. How fast I can revise depends on how well we can manage my hands. This is an old problem, so it's just a question of changing my treatment, an inconvenience but not an emergency. Thank you for reading, and thank you for your patience with this. - SK

**Author's note, part 1:** This time, I'm putting my responses to reviews at the end, since they're getting wordy. As for the obligatory story warnings, it's light M/M, hints of AllenXOC. Also, there's a reference to Lost Fragment of Snow in here.

* * *

**To Him That is Ready to Perish**

"Damn it, Tim!" Allen said, looking around helplessly from under an awning. "Where the hell am I?"

He was within walking distance of the Wien Südbahnhof. He knew that much because that was where he'd walked from, but nothing he could see bore any resemblance to the directions he'd been given. It didn't help that it was pouring down rain, making passers-by less inclined to answer stupid questions. He wasn't even sure he could retrace his steps so that he could start over. Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed his Master to cut him loose to find his way to God knew where when he could barely get where he was supposed to go when he knew where he was going.

"Tim?"

Timcanpy's only reply was a slight flutter against Allen's chest, but Tim was dry and probably wanted to stay that way.

"Excuse me?" said a heavily-accented voice at Allen's elbow. "Can I help?"

"_Guten Abend_," Allen said to a boy about his own age with a stunningly lush mouth, whose drenched cherub curls made golden rings around his face. He wore an overcoat, but it was open in the front and his shirt was wet, clinging to a lightly-muscled chest.

"You speak German?" the boy asked, looking surprised, but in spite of the cold and wet, a slow grin was breaking over his face.

"A little," Allen said in that language.

"Well, that makes two pleasant surprises." The boy looked him up and down. "Now, how can I be of service to you?"

"Ah…" Allen said, well aware of what was being implied by "service." "I'm just looking for a place to sleep."

"I can show you, but why not let me warm your bed a bit? It's a cold night."

"I just need food and sleep," Allen said, smiling.

"You're cute," the boy said frankly. "It would be a pleasure. I'll even give you a discount."

"Cute?" Allen laughed. "You have a strange idea of cute!"

"I've seen a lot of ugly in my line of work. White hair and a weird scar? Pfft!" He waved his hand dismissively. "It's the eyes that count, and yours are amazing. I'm guessing your body's not bad, either, but I'd have to get you out of that overcoat to be sure."

Allen laughed. "Take me someplace where I can get food and a bed. I'll pay your going rate for the company."

"Let me get this straight," the boy said, giving Allen a long look. "You'll pay for conversation but not for a good time? Are you stupid or crazy?"

"I don't think you'll be boring," Allen said. "And I know you have a quota to make."

The boy sighed. "Yeah, I do, and playing tour guide beats the hell out of trawling for dirty old men in the rain. Been doing that for three days, but the worthless bastards just won't come out. What's more important to you, the food or the bed?"

"The food," Allen said.

"All right. I know a place. The rooms aren't much, but the dumplings are amazing."

"As long as there are a lot of them!" Allen said. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated, then shrugged as if to himself. "Mattias." He offered his hand.

Allen took it, guessing from the hesitation that it was his real name, rather than the name he used to separate himself from the street. "Allen Walker. Take me to where these dumplings are, and you can have as many as you like."

Mattias took him to a guest house that seemed to cater to travelers on meager budgets, although it was clear that the restaurant was popular. They served plain, inexpensive fare, Shnitzel, cabbage, thick soups, and dumplings, but Mattias assured him that it tasted like his grandmother was doing the cooking, even if the rooms did not look like she was doing the cleaning.

"You're going to eat all that?" Mattias gasped when he heard Allen's order.

"Yeah."

Mattias shook his head. "That's enough to feed a family! How do you do it?"

"Long story," Allen said.

"Got all the time you're willing to pay for," Mattias said, "and I don't think you'll be boring, either."

"All right," Allen said, thinking that this would probably cure Mattias of any illusions of cute. "You wanted to know what was under the overcoat. Here it is." He took off his glove, exposing his deformed hand.

"Holy Mother of God!" Mattias said, crossing himself. "What the hell is that?"

"It's a weapon," Allen said.

"The fuck?" Mattias asked, taking a largish drink of his beer and peering cautiously at Allen's hand, poking lightly at a black nail with one finger. "Is that some kind of artificial hand? What's it made of?"

"I was born with it."

"You were born with that?" Mattias's eyebrows went up. "How the hell did that happen?"

Half a loaf of bread arrived along with several bowls of soup, and Allen began to explain.

"All right, so let me get this straight," Mattias said as Allen wound down. "This cross thing somehow implanted itself in your hand before you were even born, took over your arm, makes you fight Demons, and steals all your food?"

Allen laughed. "That's one way to put it! Although you make it sound even less believable than it already is."

"I wish I could say that I don't believe a word of it," Mattias said, sobering, "but you hear stories. Like a guy I knew. Raised his little brother after their parents died. Worked like a dog to keep them out of the orphanage, then the brother got pneumonia. Guy came home one night, and the kid was stone dead. Couldn't even bury him properly, but if there was no money for heat, there was no money for a funeral, and of course it was the lack of heat that killed the poor mite in the first place. The guy went out of his mind with grief, then one day he changed. Turned savage. There were rumors that he'd killed someone, and then he disappeared. Demon's as good an explanation as any and makes more sense than some."

"It's possible," Allen said. "That's exactly the kind of person the Earl looks for."

"You know what's funny?" Mattias said as he drained his third beer. "Believing in Demons isn't so hard. People do shit to each other that makes you hope they were possessed, but Exorcists? All I got for Exorcists is that hand and what you say about it. Usually, a kid like that dies, his brother goes insane, and nobody gives a damn."

"I don't think there are very many Exorcists," Allen said, "but I know there are an awful lot of Demons. And your friend, he might have run into an Exorcist. That might be why he disappeared."

"God, I hope so because the guy could have used some peace! Wish you could just knock on the church door and ask for an Exorcist when shit like that happens," Mattias said. "As it is, all you get is a few bits of bread, and that's only if the right person answers. Get the wrong person, and they run you off like a dog."

"What happened to your parents?" Allen asked. It must have been recent, because begging at churches was usually the first resort, and Mattias spoke as if the memory was still fresh.

"Oh, I'm not really an orphan," Mattias said, "not the way you are. I got disowned a couple years ago. My father decided I was a disgrace to the family name and threw me out." He shrugged. "Too old for the orphanage, too big for the chimneys, too small for the railways and construction yards, but I look young and I got a pretty face so Wolf took me in. As long as I make my quota, I have a place to sleep, something to eat, probably too much to drink." He made a face at his fourth beer. "But you know what the Book says, 'Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.' Or something like that. You probably think I'm an idiot."

"No, I don't," Allen said. Drink brought out the worst in him, but for others it was a much-needed anodyne.

Mattias sighed. "I know how I'm probably going to end up, but what have I got? No home, no family, and it's not as if finding a nice girl and settling down makes much sense. Maybe I could have lived like my old man, married myself a brood mare and took my pleasure on the side, but you know what? I've hated him since I was a kid. He was a shit to our mother because she didn't have the decency to turn barren after producing an heir, as if it was her fault for having daughters—and me. He makes a good living, but he didn't want to spend it on a bunch of extra mouths, and anything more than a nice, strapping son was an extra mouth. Married my oldest sister off when she was sixteen, another sister when she was fifteen, and threw me out for being a sissy. Which is true," he added, "but there are worse things I could be. Like him."

"I'm sorry!" Allen said. Which was worse, being thrown out as a baby, or being thrown out like this?

"It is what it is," Mattias said with a shrug. "Funny thing is, it's my brother who's really getting it. Papa's favorite. A man like my father, he doesn't put anything into life without expecting to get certain things out for his trouble, and he can't get those things out of me, so he doesn't try. My brother…well…sometimes being loved is worse than being hated." He raised his glass slightly. "I hope he makes it somehow." Then he burst out laughing. "I'm drunk. Fuck! Sorry, man, didn't mean to go all maudlin on you."

Allen laughed. At least he was a sentimental drunk instead of a belligerent one. "You should probably stay with me tonight."

Mattias's eyes lit up. "You changed your mind?"

"Hell no!" Allen said. "You're soaked! I mean I'm getting a double room and you're sleeping it off."

"Wolf will be furious if I don't come home."

Wolf was undoubtedly his pimp. "I'll make it worth his while."

Mattias gave Allen a long look. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"

Before he met Mana, Allen didn't understand what it meant to be lonely, but he'd always been alone. He was safer that way. After Mana died, he understood, but the consequences of that understanding would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Traveling with Cross was like penance. The man was capricious, ruthless and mercenary, and Allen had never shaken the feeling of staring down the barrel of Judgement back when he thought it was just a gun. He was always afraid when his Master was around, but it scared him even more to be left abruptly with no idea where his Master was and a pile of bills in amounts he hadn't even known were possible. Once the bills were paid, the worst of them anyway, Allen would be able to breathe, then Cross would pop up like a jack-in-the-box and it would start all over again.

Allen had been traveling for over two months with no sign of Cross, and while he thought maybe he was sleeping a little easier, sometimes the aloneness pressed down on him in the dark.

"I told you," he said. "I can use the company."

"You're paying," Mattias shrugged, "and God help me, but I don't want to walk home like this in the rain. I'm so sick of the fucking rain, it's killing me!"

Allen rose, offered Mattias a hand, and the boy pulled himself up, staggered a bit, then got his feet under him. He was drunk, but not really drunk enough to need to lean on Allen as much as he did. He smelled like lager, very different from the wine and hard liquor Cross preferred, and underneath was something else, a soft, woodsy musk that was entirely his own. Allen let him lean because he liked it.

If Allen had seen the room before the restaurant, he would have gone elsewhere. It was dingy and small, just two narrow beds, a table and a washstand, but as it was, the food made him more forgiving of the lodgings. Cooking of that caliber was well worth a moderately uncomfortable night. Allen settled Mattias on one of the beds, helped him off with his shirt and belt, then pulled off the boy's shoes, losing himself in the familiar routine of putting someone to bed.

"You're good at this," Mattias said.

"I've had a lot of practice. Stay awake for a bit, all right? You need water."

Allen went downstairs to ask the landlord for a glass and mineral water, a lot of it, then he went back to his room, dug through his suitcase, and found a small paper packet. "What's that?" Mattias asked apprehensively as Allen mixed some of the contents with water.

"Willow bark extract. Tastes like shit," Allen warned. It was the only painkiller he carried, better for aches or fevers than wounds, but it would take the edge off almost anything.

"What's it for?" Mattias asked.

"The headache you're going to have if you don't drink it."

Mattias took a sip and stuck his tongue out. "That's nasty! On the bright side, it can't be poison. If you were going to poison me, you'd make it taste good."

"If I was going to poison you, I would have put it in your beer," Allen said, smiling.

"Good point!" Mattias shrugged and raised the glass. "_Prosit_!" Then he downed it, gagged a bit, and gave the glass back to Allen, who refilled it with plain water.

"Here."

"Thanks." Mattias took a long gulp. "You sure that stuff's going to help?"

"Yeah. Your stomach won't like it, but your head will."

"God!" Mattias lay back on the pillow. "This crap better work, because my stomach already feels weird. I think I ate too…what the hell is that? Am I seeing things?"

Allen laughed. "No, that's Timcanpy."

"A what?"

"He's a golem, a machine."

"That's a machine? Who made it?"

"My Master."

"Where'd it come from?"

"I keep him in my pocket or under my coat, when he's not sitting on my head. I guess he decided to come out." Allen had no idea what kind of thought process drove Tim. Sometimes, he stayed hidden when there were other people around. Sometimes he came out, almost as if to say hello.

Mattias batted at Tim, who fluttered just out of reach. "God, what a night! A guy who calls himself an Exorcist, with a weapon for a hand and a little gold flying machine! Even I'm not going to believe me in the morning! I'm not even sure I believe me now. It's like I'm dreaming."

Four beers shouldn't have been enough to knock him this flat, Allen thought, especially if he was used to drinking. "How much sleep have you had?" he asked.

"Not much. It's been a bad few nights."

Mattias's torso was marked with bruises, some yellowing but some still purple, and Allen thought it likely that he hadn't eaten much in the last few days, either, which would help explain why the alcohol had hit him so hard. "Go to sleep then."

Mattias looked at him, drunk, bleary and incredulous. "So what happens next, you murder me in my bed? Is that why you're doing this?"

Allen smiled. "No! What happens next is that you wake up with a hangover, which won't be my fault."

"Yes it will. You bought me the beer. Look, if you decide to kill me, make it quick, okay? I don't mind dying, I just mind being tortured. Something about it gives me the willies."

"The idea of torturing someone gives me the willies," Allen said. "You have nothing to worry about."

"Then what? You just going to leave me here? Stiff me as a joke?" He sighed. "Because if so, it's an old one. I think I'd rather be murdered."

Allen pulled out his wallet and laid a several Kronen on the table. "That should cover it, right?" In fact, it more than covered it, but if there was one thing Allen knew, it was the cost of sexual services. "If you're that scared, you can go."

Mattias frowned. "What's wrong with you, that you're being so nice to me?"

The answer to that was more complicated than the answer to why he ate so much. "I have no reason not to be," Allen said.

"You're an odd one, all right! Well, goodnight then. And remember, no torture. Wolf will be angry if you damage the merchandise, and you don't want to deal with Wolf when he's angry."

Allen, who had just spent three years with someone who accumulated angry pimps and then dumped them on him, couldn't help but laugh. "Got it!" he said. "Now go to sleep!"

Mattias closed his eyes, and Allen got himself ready for bed while Tim fluttered around the room. "Keep an eye on him, will you?" Allen said. "Wake me if he gets sick."

Tim settled on Mattias's bedpost to keep watch for the night as Allen curled up under the blanket, thinking how strange it was that something he thought he resented, like putting a drunk to bed, could calm him like this. Then he thought about how Mattias reminded him of Mana when his mind wandered and he rambled, despondent, about the brother he never found, when the only thing to do was coax him into going for a walk, or going to bed if it was late enough, easing him out of his coat, tie, belt and shoes, and setting his hat on top of it all before tucking him in and watching until he started to snore. Only then did Allen let himself drift off to sleep.

"Allen! Allen!"

Someone was calling his name and shaking him. "Allen! Wake up! You're having a nightmare!"

Allen's hand shot out and grabbed at the voice, catching a wrist and clinging to it. "Who…?"

"Mattias. It's Mattias. Allen, wake up, for God's sake!"

Allen gasped, panting, his upper body drenched in sweat. "Mattias?" he said, trying to orient himself.

"Shit, man, what the fuck do you dream about?" Mattias asked, pulling Allen upright and rocking him gently.

Images shattered in Allen's head, and he clung to Mattias as the fragments of them fell ringing into the dark. "I don't know! I don't know!"

"Come on, damn it, wake up before you wake the whole house!"

Only then did Allen realize that he was speaking English, and the effort of changing languages pulled him out of it. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't worry about it," Mattias said. "Does this happen a lot?"

Allen thought of all the times he'd woken sweating, paralyzed, or with the sensation that he was falling, with a rush of fear, or with his head aching because he'd been grinding his teeth so hard. He could keep a handle on himself when he was awake, keep his mind and his mood steady, but his control ruptured when he slept, flooding his dreams with the anxiety he didn't allow himself during the day. "Yes."

Mattias stroked Allen's back. "You got anything for it in that bag of yours?"

"No," Allen said, relaxing into the embrace.

"I could get you something."

He probably could. Someone like Mattias could find anything in this city at any hour. "No, thanks, I'm fine now." The heat of the other boy's skin spread through Allen like cocoa, sweet and soothing.

"How 'bout I take care of you?" Mattias asked, letting his lips brush Allen's cheek.

Allen leaned into the touch without realizing it, fighting not to turn his head and taste the pulse that beat a little too quickly in the other boy's throat, but even as he won that battle, he lost the one involving threading his fingers through Mattias's hair. "You already have," he whispered. "Thank you."

"I'm really good, I promise. I can make you forget all about it."

Allen shook his head, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes at the force of his own weakness. He hated the fact that he even wanted to, but he liked Mattias, and that wasn't something he could help. He felt it whether he thought he should or not.

"It's all right," Mattias said, his hand sliding down Allen's chest. "I don't mind earning my keep, not for you."

The whisper was seductive, but in the words themselves was a sense of obligation and the touch was mechanical, rehearsed. Wolf hadn't just taken Mattias in, he had broken him in, raped him or sold the pleasure until the boy learned to offer himself to escape the violence and humiliation, if not the pain. Mattias was no longer able to say no, no matter how much he might want to, and it stripped his yes of its meaning.

"That's not who you are to me," Allen said, catching Mattias's hand. "I paid you what I promised for what I asked you to do, and you've done more than I asked. You don't owe me anything."

"Did I do something wrong? Mattias asked, and the fear now front and center. "Do you not like me, is that it?"

"No," Allen said. "It's not that I don't like you. It's that I do."

"I think I know what your problem is," Mattias said after a minute. "You're not stupid or crazy, you're stupid and crazy. You know you want to and so do I, so why not?"

Allen had to struggle to find the words in English, then struggle to translate it all into German. Mattias waited, his thumb stroking the cross in Allen's hand as if he was trying to calm it, and perhaps he was. It was just as agitated as Allen.

"My Master," Allen said at last. "It's like an emptiness inside him. I don't think he even feels it anymore. If there's a woman in the room, he tries it, and if there isn't, he goes looking. It's a necessity, like breathing, and I don't want to be like that. I know I'll feel better." Nothing else could make him feel so alive or so connected. "But it will only be for a little while, and then I'll feel worse. I can't stand that." He would not contribute to another's violation, and he knew the contempt prostitutes had for those who used them. He didn't want someone he liked to have any reason to see him as another trick.

"Your Master, did he ever…?" Mattias asked. "Is that why?"

"No, I'm not his type, but I almost wish he had."

"Why?" Mattias asked, aghast. "Why would you wish that?"

Allen bit his lip. Once again, he had been protected by circumstance from what others were forced to endure. "Because then it would have been just me. He wouldn't have had to go looking. There wouldn't have been so many others, just me."

"Allen!" Mattias hold on Allen's hand tightened. "It's never just you. It doesn't work that way. No matter how many times it happens to you, it's never just you, no matter how hard you try. They take you, and they take the others, too."

Somewhere out there was Wolf, and Allen had dealt with the type often enough to know that they collected children, partly because men paid a premium for the screams of terrified virgins, and partly because once it was over, those children had nowhere else to go. Wolf didn't just have Mattias, he had others whose destruction Mattias was forced to watch.

"I'm so sorry!" Allen said, and he held out his arms.

Mattias melted into them, and they lay together on Allen's bed, faces buried in each other's shoulders, weeping as it all came pouring to the surface, rage and helplessness, dependence and fear, mixed with that instinctive longing for kindness, approval, even love, that kept them holding on and hoping, like digging for pieces of silver in a box of broken glass.

After a while, they quieted, and Allen felt exhausted, drained, even sated, felt a deep rush of tenderness for the boy who still sniffled a little in his arms. Mattias shifted, resting his forehead against Allen's, their noses touching, their breath mingling. "I think I see why that weapon picked you" he said.

"Why?" Allen asked.

"Because you're exactly the kind of stupid, crazy bastard who would take on a Demon with his bare hands. I'm glad he didn't touch you. You've suffered enough. You don't need that, too."

"I don't mind the weapon. I'm glad I have it. I can do something good with it."

"I'm not talking about the weapon, I'm talking about this." Mattias's fingers traced a diagonal line across Allen's back, where the skin was thick and strange, but a ringmaster's whip could cut through flesh as quickly and easily as a knife.

"It wasn't that often," Allen said, "and it didn't happen all at once."

"It's what I'm most afraid of," Mattias said. "My father, before he threw me out, he took me to see a man flogged for buggery and told me that was going to happen to me someday. I was so scared I got sick. I don't know why they did this to you, but that they did it is enough. It's enough."

Was it? When he looked back, all Allen could see were the times he'd gotten lucky or fallen short, and someone else had gotten hurt. "Thank you," he whispered.

Mattias wiped Allen's face with his fingers. "You think you can sleep without screaming now?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm glad you did." Mattias snuggled closer. "Because now that I'm here, you're not kicking me out."

"I'm too tired to try." Not to mention too content.

"Good! Now go to sleep, and no more dreams, okay?" He stroked Allen's hair. "No more dreams."

Allen's eyes closed, and he drifted off in a cocoon of warmth infused with a whisper of musk.

Allen woke first, and lay quiet for a while, watching Mattias sleep. They had separated in the night, but their hands were clasped on the pillow between them, and Allen wasn't ready to let go just yet.

But he had to. With a soft sigh, he kissed Mattias's fingers and eased out of bed, trying not to wake the other boy as he dressed.

He failed. As he was tying his tie, he heard a rustle behind him, then a sleepy voice calling his name.

He turned, and he couldn't help smiling. Mattias's hair, mussed with sleep, looked twice as fluffy as it did the night before, and it had dried from dark gold to wheat. His eyes were hazel in dim morning light, making him look like a young Apollo. "You were going to sneak out without saying goodbye, weren't you."

"Yeah," Allen admitted.

"Asshole! Come here!"

Allen sat on the bed. That mouth looked soft as a ripe mango, but in daylight, the temptation wasn't so great or so sinister.

"Take off your glove," Mattias said.

Allen obeyed, and Mattias took the armored hand in both of his, tracing the cross that glowed softly in the back. "I didn't just imagine this. And that little thing is real, too," he said, looking up at Timcanpy. "I didn't think I drank that much."

"You were really tired," Allen said. "How do you feel?"

"Not as bad as I should," Mattias said. "I think that stuff you gave me worked. What was it?"

"Willow bark, but if you take too much for too long, you'll be vomiting blood."

Mattias sighed. "There's always a catch, isn't there."

Yes, always. "Can you get up?" Allen asked.

"I have to," Mattias groaned, holding his head. "I gotta go. Wolf's going to kill me!"

"I don't think so," Allen said, nodding at the bedside table as he stood, fixing his tie.

Mattias counted, then his jaw dropped. "Allen, Jesus, I didn't do anything worth this!"

"You put up with my nightmares. Most people would charge a hell of a lot more for that."

Mattias threw off his blanket, and Allen's eyes went instinctively to the morning erection that made a thick line in the boy's snug trousers.

"Goddamn it," Mattias muttered as he put his shoes on. "I wish I could give you your damned money back, but I gotta keep Wolf happy. I'm sorry!"

"I know," Allen said as he got his gaze under control. "I understand. I did from the start."

"Yeah, you did and so did I. Shit! You come through here again, you look for me." Mattias threaded his belt through the loops and buckled it. "I'll give you a night without nightmares. On my own time." He threw on his shirt and overcoat, not bothering to button them.

"You don't owe me," Allen said.

"Stupid, crazy bastard! It's not that I think I owe you, it's that I think I love you! Not that it means much coming from me." He threw his arms around Allen, hugging him hard. "Goodbye, Allen Walker. You and that little gold thing, you give those Demons hell, you hear me?"

"We will," Allen savoring his last breath of that musk. "And thank you. It means everything, especially coming from you." Love of any kind was rare in Mattias's world.

Mattias kissed both of Allen's cheeks and left, his footsteps dancing on the stairs.

Allen stared at the door, his hand moving automatically to his face. It was strange. Twice in his life he'd heard that, and both times it was when someone was saying goodbye. He smiled, a little wistfully, then he grabbed his things, tucked Timcanpy into his pocket and went downstairs.

He ordered breakfast, and was pleased when they gave him an entire loaf of bread to occupy himself while it cooked. It was a dark rye, rich, heavy and still warm, and he savored it, firmly ignoring the ache in his groin. It wasn't that bad, and it would go away in a while.

_It's your own fault, _his Master's voice said._ You paid him for it, then turned it down. _

_That wasn't what I paid him for. _Allen thought, irritated at how quickly his Master's voice, even in his own head, could drag down his mood.

_Oh, you paid him for his company? _the voice sneered. _And to put up with your nightmares? The boy's a whore. If you pay him, it's for sex. _

Paying for sex he didn't have was hardly a new experience for Allen. _I paid him because his time isn't his own. _

_You did him no favors by treating him well. It's not good for him to start thinking he deserves it._

_I don't fucking care what he is or what was done to him or what he does for a living!_ Allen raged. _He deserves some human decency!_

_Human decency's a luxury kids like him can't afford. You know that._

Allen did, all too well, but he also knew how long and how ardently it could be treasured by someone who couldn't take it for granted.

_With that attitude, people are going to take advantage of you, _his Master's voice said._ You use people or they use you. Your choice._

_I'm not choosing, _Allen thought. _If those are my options, I'm not choosing._

_Then don't be surprised if someone else does the choosing for you. _

One of the things Allen hated about his Master was that black and white view of the world. One gave or took, used or was used, and there was no question as to which was the better side. _Oh, shut the hell up, you bloody reprobate! _Allen thought, wanting very much to put an end to this._ Advice from someone like you is about as useful here as tits on a bull!_

_Knowing you, you would find that very useful. _The voice dripped with disgust.

Allen knew exactly what his Master would think of his inability to make up his mind as to which sex he preferred. He could kill a surprising amount of time on an idling train by watching a pretty girl on the platform, and then next thing he knew, he'd find his head turned by a boy with a lush mouth and cherub curls. He'd had enough sense to hide it from the real Cross, but his internal version knew far too much. Still, Allen knew his Master pretty well, and could hit back in his head, even if he couldn't do it in real life. _Better than chasing after everything with tits just because it has tits. In fact, you would be so blinded by the tits that you probably wouldn't notice it was a bull until it was too late._

The mental image of Cross confronted with an unexpected penis in an intimate moment brought the argument to a satisfactory, if rather childish, close.

Allen finished eating, then went to settle his bill. There were people he needed to find if he was going to scrounge up enough money to get to Salzburg, and of course there were people who needed to be paid. In every city, there were people who needed to be paid.

The sky was still overcast, as if it was considering dumping even more rain, and Allen realized that he'd been paying no attention at all to where Mattias had been going the night before.

"Damn it, Tim!" he said, trying to make sense of his surroundings, narrow streets flanked by grayish buildings with ornately carved window frames and orange clay-tiled roofs. "Where the hell am I?"

* * *

**Author's notes, part 2**

Sammi 117, I seem to have confused you, I'm sorry! Chapter 7 was a guest appearance for Lavi and Kanda; they won't be back. That was supposed to be in the title, but the expression "ships that pass in the night" is somewhat out of date. I didn't know how much of it I needed, and appear to have used too little to be of help to you. The history Lavi's waiting for is a reference is to something Bookman says in Chapter 207 of DGM, so not only was I a bit too vague, I should have put in a spoiler/confusion warning. I hope I've fixed both problems now. Actually, I think I like it better with the new quote at the end, so thank you.

GreenGreyBlue, how did you get into my browser history? It's awful; I can kill hours bouncing from site to site. I do it with books, too, so I'm a walking collection of useless information. I would have paid attention in school if they'd taught things like Gilles de Rais, but they taught boring stuff, like who won the battles, not how sick and twisted the leaders were. Regarding description, thank you, because they start out so clunky and horrible and take forever to rewrite. You encourage me to keep at it. My model is E.T.A. Hoffmann, a master at painting with words, and I have a very long way to go before I even step into his shadow.

Sedentary Wordsmith, nice to meet you and thank you for letting me know that you like this! The beauty of this project is that it's closed-ended. I'm going country to country until Allen reaches England, which brought me to the popcorn problem. Chapter 4 put Allen in the Ottoman Empire and Chapter 5 is Greece, then he had to go through another part of the Ottoman Empire to reach Central Europe. From a plot/structure standpoint, I didn't have to write that one and I had nothing good for it anyway, just a few ideas that wouldn't make an entire chapter by themselves. It felt like a filler episode, something I was taught to avoid, but I like fillers in manga, so I smushed the ideas together, turned it into filler/popcorn, and asked about it, to see what people thought. You're right, though. This whole thing is filler, so I was worried over nothing.

P.S. The River Styx image came from that river of coffins Lavi saw in Road's dream world when they were on the Ark.


	9. An Educated Man

**Author's notes: **Well, I'm back, four days without power and a flurry of appointments later. I really will have to slow down a bit, but my occupational therapist is trying to help me get as much use out of my hands as possible while slowing down the damage and my writing partner is buying me voice recognition software, so it's all good. And yes, I love my writing partner to death!

Anyway, I hope I got the worst of the kinks out of this! Responses to reviews of the last chapter are at the end.

* * *

**An Educated Man**

Allen reached Tübingen less with dread than with a heavy heart. He could pay off the most important of his Master's creditors, but it was the fact that he had to that bothered him. This wasn't a loan from one of Cross's seedier friends or a bill from a brothel he'd stiffed. This man was a university professor with a wife and family, someone even his Master should know better than to sponge off, but no. His Master could bilk anyone, and did so without qualm or compunction.

It didn't help that Allen wasn't sure where he was going. The University was scattered throughout the city, and while he was pretty sure the part he was looking for was on or near the Wilhelmstraße, where the hell was that? Maps never made any sense to him. He could never tell which way was up.

So he walked, sometimes stopping for directions, sometimes trying to square what was in front of him with what was on the map, and sometimes cursing under his breath at Timcanpy who was curled up in his jacket pocket, not so much being unhelpful as not being helpful.

Eventually, he found himself in front of an imposing structure with two fountains flanking the entrance, the New Hall, the only building he could remember by name. He wasn't sure if this was the right place, but even if it wasn't, someone here should know where to find The Professor.

Ten minutes later, he was back on the street, muttering at Tim but with an address in his pocket and instructions to go southeast, into the old town near Schloß Hohentübingen where the University had a handful of buildings. He stopped at a food cart for sausages and bread, then headed back in the direction from which he'd come.

"You could have spared me that, couldn't you," he said to Tim.

Tim didn't even bother to move.

"Allen Walker!" said the man who answered the door Allen finally manage to knock on. "This is a surprise! Come in! Sit down! I didn't know Marion was in town."

"He's not," Allen said, taking one of the chairs in front of the heavy desk as The Professor settled into a battered leather armchair. The room was lined with books, except for one wall where they made room for two crossed swords, German fencing _Schläger,_ with off-center, half-circle hilts covered in grey and blue felt. "It's just me."

"I hope nothing's happened to him?" The Professor asked.

Allen couldn't imagine what could possibly happen to his Master. "Not as far as I know," he said. "He left on business of his own." It was as good an explanation as any.

"Left? When?"

"A few months ago."

"A few months ago? Where have you been staying?"

"I've been traveling from India."

The Professor frowned. "You've come all the way here from India by yourself? I see. Well, how can I help you?"

The Professor's full name and title were Herr Professor Christian Diederich von Regenstein, of the history department at Universität Tübingen, but to Allen, he was simply The Professor. He was very thin, his hair a distinguished silver, and his mild face twisted on the left side by an old scar that distorted the line of his cheek. He had a few such marks, but that one was the most obtrusive. "Actually, sir," Allen said in his most formal German. "I'm here to help you. I understand that my Master borrowed money from you, and I'd like to pay it back."

The Professor smiled. "I'm not sure it's safe to ask how you came by the money to do it, but I assure you it's unnecessary. I've known Marion for many years. All loans to him are gifts, and I don't give him more than I can afford."

"Sir, really, it's all right." This was one of the very few respectable connections General Cross had, and Allen wanted to preserve it if he could.

"No, no, young man! I mean it. I'm better off than I let your Master think, although I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him that. Even so, his debts are not your debts. You shouldn't feel obligated to clean up after him."

"I'm his apprentice," Allen said. "The bills usually come addressed to me."

"Not from this office, they don't! In fact, if you need anything, all you need to do is ask. I'll be happy to help you in any way I can."

"Thank you," Allen said. "All I really need is a place to spend the night, if you can recommend a hotel."

"Ah, I can do better than that!" The Professor said. "You will spend the night with us. No," he added, a hand raised to cut off Allen's objections. "We'd be delighted. I'll send someone to inform my wife so she can start preparations for supper."

"Really, sir, I couldn't impose on her like that," Allen said. His appetite made dinner invitations nerve-wracking.

The Professor laughed. "It's no imposition, quite the contrary! If my wife had been a man, she would have been a chemist. She treats the kitchen as a laboratory, producing endless variations on dishes until she gets them just right. I think she'd consider you to be an excellent experimental subject."

"Thank you, but I—."

"Nonsense! You've had a long journey and I assume it's not over yet. A bit of _Gemütlichkeit _is just the thing, I think."

_Gemütlichkeit._ It was a word that had no direct equivalent in English, being a mix of order, comfort, peace and homeyness, all things Allen was unfamiliar with.

"I'm also duty-bound to offer whatever help I can to any Exorcist," The Professor added. "I'm a Supporter of the Black Order."

"I didn't know that, sir," Allen said, surprised.

The Professor smiled. "How do you think I made your Master's acquaintance? Left to his own devices, he wouldn't set foot in this place."

It was true. Cross preferred more disreputable haunts. "Sir, I don't suppose you know where Headquarters is?" Allen asked. Perhaps he wouldn't have to travel all the way to England after all.

"I'm afraid not. It's here in Europe, but that's all I know. Is that where you're going?"

"Yes."

"I can direct you to another Supporter, but he's in Amsterdam and I'm not sure how much help he'd be. That location is kept secret."

"I have someone I can ask," Allen said.

"Ah, good! Listen, Allen, you caught me just in time. I'm supervising a duel this afternoon. Would you like to come along?"

"A duel, sir?"

"Several of them, in fact. The _Mensur_. It's a custom among German fraternities to duel, a test of courage and endurance, or so they say. As an Exorcist, you might not think much of it, but opportunities for outsiders to observe are very rare."

Most fights, Allen knew, were dull and brutal, interesting only if there was money riding on them, and Allen never bet on fights. He never bet on anything when he couldn't control the outcome. "I would hate to be in the way," he said, "and I don't know anything about the _Mensur_," he said. Until then, he had never heard of it.

The professor fingered the line that connected his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. "Did you never wonder where I got this?"

"Yes I have, sir," Allen said. He'd seen similar scars on others in Germany, usually men who had some rank or position in society.

"It's a _Schmiss_, dueling scar, from when I was at University in Jena, the mark of an educated man as well as a courageous one, or so they say." His voice was thick with sadness and irony. "The institution of the _Mensur_ is so old it might better be called a relic rather than a tradition, and I don't know if it will survive into the modern age. I'm not even sure that it should. If you'd rather not come, I'll send you to my home, with instructions to my wife to inflict her culinary iniquities on you to her heart's content. It's up to you."

That decided it. Other people's homes were an alien world to Allen, whereas fights were something he understood. "If it's really all right, sir, I'll go with you."

"Good! Then let's put your bag in the safe. If you came prepared to repay me, it's too valuable to be left lying about."

Allen handed over his suitcase to be locked away, and waited while The Professor put on a blue cap with a striped ribbon band, then took off his jacket to put a similarly-striped ribbon over his shoulder so that it crossed his chest. "All right," he said as he put his jacket back on. "I believe we're ready!"

The duel was being held in a building two streets down, a common house of some kind, where The Professor introduced Allen as the protege of a military general. There was grave consultation amongst the older men, then they shook Allen's hand and allowed him in.

The room was full of people, all men, all but a few wearing colored caps, red, white, green, blue, or yellow, one for each fraternity. They clustered together by cap color, treating all others with cool, distant courtesy. Most had scars on their faces, and some of the younger men had bandages or freshly-healed wounds. Several sat at tables, eating, drinking or playing chess or cards. The Professor pulled one of the blue-capped men aside and asked him to inform Frau Professor that they would need dinner for five instead of two, then he and Allen joined the small crowd gathering at the far end of the room.

Two men were being wrapped in heavy padding from the neck down, leaving only their legs and their left arms free, then they were fitted with high, armored collars and metal goggles that covered the nose as well as the eyes. The duelists, apparently. Allen listened to the quiet buzz of conversation, but he had no sense that they were antagonists, merely rivals.

Two others were also wrapped in padding but not quite as heavily, and they held masks similar to those of traditional fencers, the seconds, Allen assumed from how they readied the two combatants, who were now so covered in protective gear that they looked like monsters. A fifth man held a watch, and a sixth, an older man with a pale, tired face, carried a medical bag. A seventh simply stood by, a referee or arbiter of some kind, Allen thought. He'd never seen a duel like this before, so he couldn't be sure. The two in goggles were helped to their feet by their seconds, helped off with their caps, and given _Schläger_, sharp ones if Allen wasn't mistaken, then the seconds took up swords of their own.

All four bowed to the referee, who nodded back before the seconds put on their masks and they all took up their positions, the duelists and their seconds making up the corners of a square. The doctor and the man with the watch took places just behind the referee, and the audience went silent.

"On my command," said the referee. "_Hoch, bitte!" _

The two combatants raised and crossed their swords, and the seconds raised theirs as well, blocking the extended blades with their own.

"_Mensur…fertig…los!"_

Steel rang on steel as the seconds removed their swords and ducked.

The duelists' feet remained planted, their left arms behind their backs and their bodies stock-still, their faces expressionless. Only their wrists and arms moved, the blades of their swords lashing rapidly back and forth, pealing like bells as they collided until a spray of blood shot into the air and the seconds pushed forward, knocking their swords apart as the referee gave a cry of "_Halt!"_

The referee called a break, and one man's blade was wiped down while the surgeon wiped blood from the other man's face under the concerned eyes of his second and his fraternity brothers. The sword had drawn a thin line on his cheekbone just below his goggles, but the doctor pronounced him still fit. They were given a moment to catch their breath, then they resumed their positions.

"_Hoch, bitte! Mensur…fertig…los!"_

Steel clashed for a few more minutes, and when the second cry of "_Halt!_" rang out, a trickle of blood ran through the sweat on the other man's forehead. They paused, and the injured man waited, impassive, as the doctor was consulted. Then the command to raise their swords was given again, and they fought on.

Each round lasted no more than a few minutes, but with each one, more blood streamed down their faces, and Allen had no idea how this was supposed to end. Obviously not at first blood, which was the usual way of deciding matters of honor. As the duel progressed, Allen had a harder time telling which blows were hitting the goggles and which were hitting their targets, there was so much blood. Facial wounds, he knew, bled like hell, and he was starting to wonder if they intended to carry on until one of them passed out.

Apparently not, because after a final cry of _"Halt!" _the watchers rapped their knuckles on tables or chairs in deafening applause while the combatants were ministered to more aggressively. After a handshake, each was led off by his fraternity brothers to a corner of the room where they were tended by the doctor. This, too, appeared to be part of the spectacle, because they made no more sound or movement as they were treated than they had when they fought.

"What do you think, Allen?" The Professor asked softly. Conversation had resumed, but in hushed tones, most of it analyzing the duel, debating who'd come out better.

"I don't know, sir," Allen said, still trying to figure out why they'd fought and who won. "To be honest, I'm not sure what just happened."

An older man with a while cap and two short but ugly scars turned to glare at him.

"That's all right!" The Professor said. "That was only the first one. We'll see what you think when they're finished.

As the afternoon wore on, Allen started to get a feel for the _Mensur_. The contests were timed, fifteen minutes, with the clock stopped each time the referee called a halt unless the doctor deemed one of the duelists too injured to continue. The longest took forty minutes total, leaving the participants drenched with blood and sweat. One ended when a yellow-cap's sword broke and his opponent sliced a deep gouge into his cheek before the seconds could intervene. There was a longer than usual pause while the wound was stitched, and while most seemed to think that it was too bad for the yellow-cap to lose in such a way, Allen thought he'd come out better. When his blade broke, he lowered his hand without stepping back or flinching, accepting what he must have known would be a nasty blow, whereas his green-cap opponent had been unable to stay his hand or had gone for the dirty win. Another duel was over when it became clear that the participants were unevenly matched, with one man receiving three cuts without giving any in return.

The final contest of the day generated the most excitement, the only one in which there appeared to be any personal stake, but if Allen understood correctly, the winner had lost his first duel rather badly, and the general consensus was that he had come back strong.

"What did you think now, Allen?" The Professor asked.

"Who's your young friend again, von Regenstein?" interrupted the man who had given Allen the disapproving look.

"Ah, Schenk, this is Allen Walker, protege of an English general. Allen, this is Herr Professor Schenk, from the mathematics department."

"So you're a general's aide, eh?" Professor Schenk said, offering his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"The same," Allen said.

"So where's your general?"

"Away on business," Allen said.

"Allen is staying with me for the evening," The Professor said.

"I see! That's an interesting mark you have there on your cheek. Is it a birthmark?"

"It's a scar, sir," Allen said, wondering what this roomful of men with dueling scars would think of the imprint of a curse.

"A scar?" Professor Schenk said loudly, and several heads turned. "Now how can that possibly be a scar?"

Allen froze, his smile plastered to his face while he tried to come up with a polite, believable response, but then the Professor stepped in. "It was a terrible attack, when Allen was very young," he said.

"What?" Professor Schenk injected a bark of laughter into the question. "A scar! Shaped like that! Boy probably did it himself with a paint pot. A lot of boys do, although I will say this is more creative and better done than most. Certainly not very realistic!" The man licked his finger and smeared it across Allen's cheek, then he stepped back, his face scarlet.

"You see?" The Professor said. "He was lucky to have survived at all."

The temperature of that part of the room dropped perceptibly, then those nearby went pointedly back to their original conversations.

"Hmph! Well, lucky indeed then! So, have you come to any conclusions about what you saw here today?" Professor Schenk asked. His tone was light, but the glint in his eye was serious.

"I've never seen anything like it," Allen said, which was perfectly true, although perhaps not meant the way Professor Schenk was most likely to interpret it.

"Yes, well, the _Mensur_ is unique, a test of courage that has no equal in all of Europe. Not every man can face a live blade without flinching, so when you see those scars, you know that the bearer is made of stronger stuff! Have you any experience with a sword?"

"No, sir." Was that really the point? Christ! It wasn't even a fight, just an elaborate pissing match.

"Your Master never taught you to use one?"

"He uses a gun, sir."

"Ah, the gun! A modern weapon, to be sure, but primitive all the same. Not much skill required to pull a trigger. Can you shoot then?"

"No, sir." Only years of poker kept Allen from visibly squirming. This Professor Schenk was a pompous ass and proud of it.

"How strange! Did he not teach you to fight at all?"

"Hand-to-hand," Allen said.

"Wrestling? Boxing?"

"More of a Far Eastern style," Allen said. Actually, it was a mish-mash of the acrobatics he learned as a clown combined with what Cross had taught him, plus whatever Allen had picked up in the back alleys he usually got abandoned in. He'd seen a fight between two Chinese men, though, which told him that what Cross knew had been learned somewhere in the East.

"The Eastern arts? Yes, I believe I've heard of that. Very elegant, I'm told, but I don't see how practical it can be, especially against someone with a sword, or even a knife. I'm amazed he didn't train you with a weapon."

Allen's weapon was his own arm. "He saw no need."

"No need!" The man looked contemptuous. "No need for a general's protege to be able to use a weapon? So you're really just a clerk then, or an errand boy. A charity case, most likely."

"A weapon can be dropped or broken, or it can misfire," Allen said, struggling to conceal his fury, but that had hit awfully close to home. If it weren't for his arm, Cross wouldn't have bothered with him at all. "It can also be taken from the hand. That's what he taught me to do."

"Taken from the hand? Now what would be the point of a weapon if a man could be so easily relieved of it?" Professor Schenk snorted. "I'm starting to think this general of yours is a figment of your imagination, the daydreams of a gutter rat trying to reach above his station!"

"I know him personally," The Professor said, "and I assure you, the man is exceptionally capable."

The conversation had begun to draw attention, and Allen was getting the feeling that this could not end well. Professor Schenk was not the sort to back down or apologize, which meant that The Professor's remark would only inflame things.

As it did. "A con artist then!" said Professor Schenk. "You've been taken in, von Regenstein. Wouldn't be the first time."

It didn't help that this was also true in a way, and Allen was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his temper.

"The General is an old acquaintance of mine who took Allen on because he showed considerable promise," The Professor said, his hand on Allen's shoulder. "I brought Allen here because I thought someone of his training and experience might find the _Mensur _interesting."

Most men would have backed down, but not Professor Schenk. His face turned bright red as he spluttered for a moment. "Interesting? You thought this little knave might find it interesting?" Then he turned back towards the room. "Hirsh!" he shouted.

"Sir!" A young man in a white cap joined them.

"I've been made to understand that Walker here can disarm a swordsman. I would like you to put that to the test."

"Sir?" Hirsh looked Allen up and down, frowning.

"There's no need to do actual harm," Professor Schenk said in a tone that was both conciliatory and patronizing. "I just want you to test the boy, that's all."

Hirsh shrugged and rolled up his sleeves, but his was not to question the order of a superior. "If you're game, Walker, I suppose we could give it a go," he said with the air of someone humoring an idiot. "Don't suppose anyone has a foil?"

"I'll get one," one of his fraternity brothers said.

"No," Professor Schenk said. "Use the _Schläger."_

All other conversation in the room stopped, and every eye turned to Allen.

"Schenk, don't you think that's going a bit too far?" The Professor asked.

"Don't you think the boy's bragging has gone a bit too far?" Professor Schenk demanded. "He needs to be taught a lesson! Hirsch!"

"Sir?" Hirsch said, almost pleading, but a miscalculation with that blade could be lethal.

"All you need to do is prove him a liar. I'm not asking you to hurt him."

"But sir…!"

"This hall," Hirsch roared, "is for men of learning, men of honor, and men of courage. It is not for lying street urchins who deserve to have the flat taken to their backsides!"

The room fell silent, waiting. Part of Allen wanted to leave, walk away from this den of absurdity, but it wasn't just his own integrity that was being called into question, it was that of his Master and The Professor. It didn't seem right to let that challenge go unanswered. "I'll do it," he said.

There was a murmur of voices around the room, and Hirsch gaped at him in consternation. "But…"

"Hirsch!" Professor Schenk bellowed. "You will do as you're told!"

Hirsh nodded, then he handed his jacket to one of his fellows, removed his ribbon, loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves, stripping himself of everything unnecessary before reaching for a _Schläger _and looking apprehensively at Allen_._

Allen, too, shed his coat and tie and unbuttoned his shirt sleeves, rolling them to his elbows, bracing himself for the inevitable gasps as his left arm was exposed. "That's the birthmark," he said. "Don't worry. It works just fine. In fact, the skin's thicker than normal, like a leather glove. I hope that's not too much of an advantage?" he asked.

A man in his fifties coughed. "I really don't think this is such a good…"

"Nonsense!" Professor Schenk announced. "I want to see if this boy can do what he claims."

There was muttering, but they all moved back, clearing space for the fight as others in the room joined to watch.

Hirsh took the stance of a classical fencer and gave the air a few slashes with the sword, testing how it felt when used this way. Allen watched, trying to gauge his skill. It was true that the sword gave Hirsh significant reach, but unless he was exceptional, he would rely on it too much, giving little thought to anything else. The blade was more rigid than that of most fencing swords, and the last several inches were sharp, nothing Allen could grab onto. The basket hilt, designed to protect the hand during the _Mensur,_ made Hirsch's fingers unassailable. A direct approach would never work, but there was no need for a direct approach.

Hirsch hung back, understandably, so Allen feinted, reaching for the sword, trying to get the man to move. Hirsch jerked the blade upward, then slashed experimentally, to see what Allen would do. Allen stepped back, dodging it easily, then he struck, moving forward, knocking the sword clear with the flat of his left hand and reaching for Hirsch's wrist with his right. Hirsh grunted as he twisted free, and Allen learned two things, the _Schläger_ was tip-heavy, and Hirsh wouldn't relinquish it easily.

After that, it got easier, because Hirsh forgot that his opponent was an unarmed kid and started fighting in earnest. His goal was to tire Allen to the point where he gave up, and he used his sword to control the space in front of him, keeping his body sideways and out of Allen's reach. Here, his experience with the _Mensur_ showed. He was accustomed to endurance tests and he had a strong, quick wrist as well as being an agile fencer. When Allen stepped back a hair too late, the tip of the _Schläger_ sliced through his shirt, leaving a thin line of blood welling up into the white linen. The audience murmured, but Allen only nodded inside, a small miscalculation he wouldn't repeat.

While Hirsch might have had power, reach and weaponry, those weren't the only elements of a fight. There was another, far more important piece, an awareness that moved from moment to moment, absorbing everything, remembering without internalizing, adapting without predicting, and here Allen had the edge. He was trained to keep his head clear no matter how unfair the fight seemed, and to look for anything that would neutralize or even reverse an opponent's advantage. Hirsch learned fast, so Allen used that, controlling Hirsh's attention the way Hirsh was controlling the space, keeping the man's eyes upward, keeping that attention on Allen's hands and the sword, teaching him to anticipate a certain set of reactions, a dodge or a parry to the dull part of the blade followed by a strike to the upper body or sword arm.

And there was the opening. Hirsh pushed forward, dropping into a lunge, and instead of parrying, Allen dropped to the floor, sweeping outward with his legs and catching Hirsh on the inside of the knee. The man went down like a domino, his grip on the _Schläger_ loosening, and Allen was on his feet, kicking the sword clear.

A roar of appreciation filled the room, but the fight wasn't over yet. Hirsh rolled to his feet, massaging his wrist with the look of a man with a score to settle, this time taking a boxer's stance. He'd been tricked and he knew it, and he wanted to see if he could win against Allen on his own terms.

It was over quickly, but for Allen, a boxer was easier to deal with than a swordsman. Hirsh swung hard and fast, but it was nothing Allen hadn't seen before, and when the chance came, he braced his foot against Hirsh's, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled the bigger man onto his hip, letting Hirsh's own weight and momentum roll him over Allen's shoulder and drop him to the floor.

Hirsh was going down, but he wasn't going down without a fight. He grabbed for Allen's arm, missed, and caught his shirt. Allen felt the rent fabric give way, then the floorboards vibrated from the force of Hirsh's fall.

The sound echoed as they all stared in silence at Allen's exposed skin, then there were muttered curses, sounds of shuffling feet, and a smothered cough.

It was the doctor who recovered first, but there was blood on Allen's torso, and blood was his business. "Come here, young man!" he said, stepping forward and catching Allen's elbow. "Let's have a look at you."

Allen found himself in a wooden chair in the corner, the remains of his shirt on the table beside him, while the conversation in the room buzzed like a disturbed hive, agitated but with nowhere to go and nothing to sting. The doctor ignored them, his focus on cleaning Allen's wound, and the sting of the carbolic was somehow less than when Allen did it himself. He felt strange, but it was the first time he'd been seen to by a proper doctor rather than the ones Cross had taken him to, men too disgraced by alcohol or malpractice to have a surgery anywhere but the slums. The doctor seemed to know this, because he was going over Allen more thoroughly than he needed to, and The Professor joined them, frowning at the cut on Allen's chest.

"How's that?" the doctor asked.

Allen stretched experimentally, feeling tape pull against his skin. "Fine," he said. "Thank you."

"It's long, but it's shallow so I didn't stitch it. Take it easy for a couple of days, let it close properly, and you'll be good as new, although in your case I'm not sure that means much. What on earth happened to your face? I've never seen anything like it."

"I was very young," Allen said, his favorite way of explaining without explaining.

"And you don't remember? Professor, do you know what happened?"

"There were no witnesses to the attack, only to the aftermath. My understanding is that it was some time before he was able to speak."

"Mutism, followed by amnesia." The doctor nodded. "It's not uncommon in children who have suffered serious trauma." He turned back to Allen. "That's your own eye, right? Because if it's glass, it's outstanding work."

"It's my own." Sometimes.

"Well, it's a miracle you still have it! Can you see out of it?"

"Yes, sir." Could a curse also be a miracle?

"Can you follow my finger?" The doctor moved his finger back and forth in front of Allen's face, then up and down, then diagonally. "Very good! If you were my patient, I'd prescribe exercises, in case the injury weakened the underlying muscles. Spend a few minutes every day doing exactly what you just did. Now, what happened here?" He indicated the mark on Allen's side.

"Gunshot," Allen said.

The doctor whistled softly. "Lucky for you that he missed! Looks like it's healing well." the doctor examined a few yellowing bruises and old scars, and traced underneath a scrape high on Allen's back, where he'd been thrown into a wall by Demons near Gratz. "From the looks of you, I'm guessing you've cracked a few ribs here and there. Any other broken bones?"

"No, sir." Not that he knew of, anyway, nothing that had required more than a splint.

"Do you have any lingering pains? Old injuries or things you've strained? Knees, wrists, anything like that?"

"No, sir."

"You're quite sure? You might not think much of it if you're used to it, but we have a Röntgen machine here, so if there's anything bothering you, I can have a look."

"What is that, sir?"

"Röntgen rays penetrate skin and soft tissue to create what you might call a photograph of the bones. It's perfectly harmless, and it will allow me to see how you're healing inside. If something's bothering you that wasn't treated at the time, maybe we can put it right."

"No, thank you," Allen said. "I'm all right, really." He had always healed fast.

"Very well then! If you change your mind, just ask Professor von Regenstein to bring you to me. How about illnesses as a child? Scarlet fever, pneumonia, measles, mumps?"

"Measles, I think. Or something like it." One of the stripes on his back was a test, to be sure he was really sick instead of slacking off on his work. This wasn't the first time he'd been accused of using paint on himself.

"That's all? Most children in difficult circumstances have several bouts of illness. These diseases are highly contagious."

"I wasn't around other children much."

"Not even for school?"

"I've never been to school."

"You seem to have some education, and you have excellent manners."

"My father taught me." Every bit of civilization in him, he owed to Mana.

"You're a credit to him," the doctor. "Now as for your back, it looks like it was done when you were quite young, am I right?"

Allen nodded.

"Not an orphanage or a factory, if you weren't around other children. Where did you grow up?"

"The circus," Allen said.

"I see! Was there any treatment at all?"

"My father used to rub oil into them," Allen said, remembering how he'd squirmed and objected at the time, but although it didn't hurt, it was uncomfortable to have those scars touched, as if the damaged nerves didn't know what kind of signal to send.

"He wasn't responsible, I hope?"

"No. He adopted me after that."

The doctor nodded. "He did the right thing. Oil softens the tissue, helps it heal properly. A little oil won't go amiss on these, either." He ran his thumb over round, silver-pink marks, one on Allen's right arm and the other high on his shoulder. "The thicker the better. Many chemist shops carry cocoa butter, which is what I suggest to my own patients for burn scars. You're young, so you're healing splendidly, but there's no reason not to help that process along. You can use it on your face, too, if the scar tissue pulls and becomes uncomfortable. Now that arm, I'm at a loss here, but this is genuinely unique. You said it was a birthmark, or defect, perhaps?"

"I was born with it."

"May I?"

Allen nodded, apprehensive. This man was reading his body like a book.

The doctor poked and prodded at the juncture between Allen's weapon and his shoulder. "Yes, the skin is indeed like leather, heavy leather. You must have some sensation in it to be able to control it, correct?"

"Yes," Allen said, "although I need to exercise it. It gets stiff if I don't."

"That's good that you don't neglect it. You could lose the use of it if you do. How's the hand? There's no blood on your glove, but you were making very free with young Hirsh's sword."

"It's fine," Allen said. Even the sharp end of the blade couldn't damage that hand, but he saw no reason to share this.

"It's the worst of the deformity, isn't it," the doctor said sympathetically. "If we were in my surgery, I would insist, but if you don't want to show it here, you don't have to. Can I see it move, if you don't mind?"

Allen curled and flexed his fingers.

"Excellent! Remember to do the same thing with your eye, regular exercise. It might be fine now, but you could run into problems later on if it's allowed to weaken. Would you mind if I had a listen to your chest? You seem quite strong; it's just a precaution."

"Go ahead," Allen said. It was unnerving to be fussed over like this, but he had no polite way to refuse.

The man fished a stethoscope from his bag and put the earpieces into his ears. "Deep breaths," he said as he held the bell to Allen's back. "Good. Your lungs are clear. Now your heart." He held the bell to the left side of Allen's chest for several seconds before putting the instrument away. "From what I can tell sitting here, you're a bit battered but very healthy for all that. How old are you?"

"About fifteen."

"So you're not sure?" The doctor gave him a critical once-over. "Yes, that seems right, maybe sixteen depending on how malnourished you were as a small child." He turned to The Professor. "You said he was the protege of a general. Where is this man now? I would like a word with him."

Allen swallowed, grateful that Cross wasn't there. The doctor meant well, but Allen's Master was a law unto himself.

"The General is away on business, unfortunately," The Professor said, "but I quite see your point!"

"Someone should have intervened before now," the doctor said, aiming a clear reproof at The Professor. "And the adoptive father? Where is he?"

"He died a few years ago," The Professor said.

"Ah! I'm so very sorry!" the doctor said to Allen, then he turned back to The Professor. "No blood relatives, I assume. Have you taken him in, then?"

What would that be like, Allen wondered. Mana, too, was gentle and refined, but in many ways he was like a child himself, and he had needed Allen as much as Allen had needed him.

"Only for the night," The Professor answered. "He's been sponsored to an excellent academy, and he's on his way there now."

"Good! Then maybe the worst is over. All right, Allen! I know that cut probably seems like a mere scratch to you, but do try to get some rest in the next couple of days so it gets a good start on healing. Now," he said, addressing the men who were standing closer than was strictly necessary, "perhaps one of you could make yourselves useful instead of eavesdropping, and fetch this young man a clean shirt!"

"Um…," said one of them, but the tone of the conversation had changed as the doctor inventoried the evidence on Allen's body, not the marks of an educated man but the battle scars of a gutter rat.

"Oh, for the love of God, you imbeciles!" the doctor said, standing so suddenly he nearly knocked his chair over. "I'd say he won fair and square, but he didn't. Hirsh had the advantage and was soundly bested, I watched it myself. This boy deserves the same respect that the rest of you get, more in my opinion. What he has achieved, he has earned at great cost, while you lot go about wrapped in padding from cradle to grave!"

"It's not…" Allen began. He was already feeling bad about the fight. It had really been Schenk's fight, not Hirsh's, and it hadn't been fair for Allen to take up a challenge he knew that Hirsch would lose. Schenk's words were painful, but true. Allen was a street urchin and a charity case, and Cross was a con artist, which meant that Hirsch had been humiliated for no reason.

One of the yellow-caps spoke up, the man whose sword had broken. "I think I have something close to his size, sir, and the house is only three doors down. I'll do it."

"Thank you, Richter," the doctor said.

"It's all right," Allen said vainly as the yellow-cap went out the door.

"Don't worry, Allen," the doctor said. "Richter can afford plenty of shirts. This academy," he said, turning back to The Professor. "Military?"

"Yes," said The Professor, "one of the finest in Europe."

"You'll do them credit, too, I'm sure," the doctor said to Allen, "as you have with everyone who has taken you in, whether they deserved it or not. Now don't get discouraged if the environment isn't what you're used to! It will be tough at first, but if you can stick it out, you could have quite a career ahead of you. Any piece of luck you get, you should grab it with both hands, understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Allen said.

"Will they be able to fill the gaps in his academics?" the doctor asked The Professor.

"I'm confident that they can, yes," The Professor said.

"That's good! He seems like a bright boy, and it would be a shame not to give him a chance to put his skills to good use."

Allen listened as they discussed his future over his head, wondering if this was what it usually felt like to be a child.

The yellow-cap returned with a neatly folded shirt, better than what Allen usually bought for himself. "Here you go, Walker. Take it, please!" he said as Allen tried one more time to demur. "I would have paid more than the price of a shirt to see that! How does it fit?"

Allen buttoned the shirt and flexed his arms. Maybe it was a little big, but not by much. "It's fine, thank you."

"Excellent! My grandmother sent that, but she's a bit senile. Doesn't seem to realize I've grown. I was at a loss as to what to do with it, so this works out well. Your name is Walker, right?" He held out his hand. "Richter. Konrad Richter. Where are you going from here?"

So he wasn't among those who had been listening, or he was pretending he hadn't been, or perhaps he'd heard something bandied about and didn't credit it. "A military academy," Allen said, taking his cue from The Professor.

"Ha! They won't be teaching you, you'll be teaching them! Good luck to you! And thank you. That was an amazing demonstration."

Hirsh came forward then, nervous and a perhaps little angry, but he'd been given an ignominious part in all this. "Look, Walker, I had no idea…"

"That my left hand gave me such an advantage?" Allen made his voice carry without making it too loud, his clown's smile in place, but it wasn't Hirsh's fault, none of it was, and the least he could do was make things easier on the man. "I should have been clearer about that from the start. I'm sorry."

Hirsh blinked, as if trying to square the gentleman Mana had taught Allen to be with the history written into his skin, then he seemed to shake himself. "No. No, that's all right. You did say something, and…no more than a gauntlet, I suppose, and it didn't really matter in the end. I just didn't mean to cut you, that's all."

"You weren't responsible for that," Allen said. "My Master would say that it was my own carelessness at fault, and he would be right. You're too good of a fencer for that to have been your mistake."

"Ah…" Hirsch appeared to be at a loss for words.

"You were trained against opponents with the same weapons and techniques you use yourself," Allen continued, "while I was trained to disarm. If I'd had a sword in my hand, it would have been hopeless, but if you'd had my training…well…" He smiled. "Who's to say how that would have turned out?"

Finally, Hirsch's face relaxed into a genuine grin. "I see what you mean! Although I must say, that throw! I'd like to learn that. Completely useless in the ring, of course, but I can see other places where it might come in handy. Good luck to you! This academy. I hope you do well."

"Thank you," Allen said, wishing with all his heart that he hadn't let his temper get the better of him. His demonstration had been as pointless as the _Mensur_ itself, perhaps worse because there were no set rules by which the outcome could be judged. It certainly hadn't changed Professor Schenk's mind. He was glaring at Allen as if the fight had been dirty, and he would undoubtedly recount it that way.

Allen knew better than to let his shame show on his face, but he didn't try to hide it from himself. While the fight hadn't been dirty, it hadn't been fair either, and he had known that from the start. He was no credit to Mana or to Cross.

_Schenk won, _Cross's voice sneered. _All you did was make yourself look like an even bigger brat than you are, letting a brainless worm like that get to you! You need to learn to control yourself. _

_I know, _Allen thought. _I'm sorry. _If Cross had been there, he'd have earned himself another bruise.

"I am so sorry, Allen," The Professor said as they walked back to his office. "I only meant to bring you so you could watch. I didn't mean to add to your fights."

"You didn't," Allen said. "That wasn't really a fight."

The Professor sighed. "Yes, I suppose by your standards, it wasn't. I knew Marion wasn't the best guardian one could hope for, but I didn't realize…"

"It wasn't all his fault," Allen said. Even some of the things that were were down to drunkenness rather than malice.

"Negligence is also a fault, Allen. It isn't enough for a guardian to not hurt a child directly. They're also charged with protecting that child from others who will do them harm, and Marion certainly put you in harm's way. I wonder why he delayed so long in sending you to the Order? Surely, there are other Generals who are more suited to the task of training children!"

"There are other children?" Allen asked. He thought of his weapon as both a gift and a means of atonement, but the idea of other children being made to fight Demons disturbed him.

"I don't know if there are any there now, but sometimes children are chosen. Perhaps you'll be able to find some friends your own age."

Friends. Allen had never had friends, never wanted them. First they had seemed like unnecessary encumbrances, then they had seemed like too many opportunities for grief.

The Professor sighed. "My sister was an Exorcist, taken when she was about your age. We never saw or heard from her again. I, unfortunately, was not chosen, so I serve here as best I can, but these boys, they believe themselves so brave, covered in padding and armor, goggles over their eyes, guards over their noses, while women and children fight Demons. Fools, really, and I count myself as one of them. I have the scars to prove it."

"They just want to know how much they can take," Allen said, thinking more kindly of the participants in those duels. "It's good that nobody's trying to hurt them, but it means they don't know what they're capable of, and they want to find out."

"The _Mensur_ doesn't tell us that," The Professor said. "Those boys will graduate with their trophies, but only a few of them are worth anything and they won't know it. I wish I could say your demonstration had taught them a lesson, but that's not how the human heart works. Those who learned were the ones who didn't need to, and those who needed to didn't learn."

"I'm sorry, sir," Allen said. "I shouldn't have done that." It was a poor return on The Professor's hospitality.

"No, Allen, I'm sorry. I was negligent there. I shouldn't have let it happen, but I have to admit that men like Schenk bring out the worst in me." He sighed. "Doctor Wieland spent time in Africa, administering the smallpox vaccine to native children until he contracted malaria and had to return home."

That explained a great deal. The doctor had seen children far worse off than Allen, children whose scars had maimed or crippled them.

The Professor unlocked his office door. "One of the bravest men I know, and the only badges he wears are relapses of the disease. People think he's weak, whereas others stuff horsehair into their _Schmisse_ and bask in admiration they honestly believe they deserve so much that they shouldn't have to stoop so low as to earn it."

"Horsehair?" Allen asked, stopping in his tracks to stare, incredulous, at The Professor. "Seriously?"

"Yes, horsehair, or some use wine. It makes a shallow wound heal as if it was a deep one, so people can be quite sure that one took part in the _Mensur_. How do you think those little cuts on Schenk's face came to look so menacing? His talk of paint pots was nothing more than a guilty man's memory of his own crime." The Professor unlocked his safe, retrieving Allen's suitcase. "I remember coming out of my first duel. I thought my _Schmiss_ meant I was truly brave. Then I got a letter telling me that our little Ali was gone, drafted for the greatest war humanity will ever fight, and I knew exactly what kind of fool I really was. I would have taken the weapon in her place, if I could, but it wanted her and not me." There were tears in his eyes, sorrow and a sense of worthlessness that he had failed at so fundamental a duty.

"I'm sorry," Allen said.

"I offered myself as an Exorcist so I could fight at her side," The Professor said, "but I wasn't found suitable. Then I volunteered for the experiments, but they decided I would do best here at the University, as a scholar as well as a Supporter. 'They also serve who only stand and waite.'" He added in English. "John Milton, _On His Blindness_. Still, I fear I shall have a poor account to present to my Maker when the time comes."

"Maybe when I get to Headquarters, I can give your sister a message," Allen said, trying to find some comfort he could offer.

"That's very kind of you, Allen, but it was over thirty years ago, and few Exorcists live that long without becoming Generals. If she was a General, I would know." He looked at Allen, trying to smile but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry. That's a terrible thing to say to a young Exorcist."

"That's all right, sir." Cross had said the same thing many times, usually more directly and personally. _Keep that up, brat, and you won't live to see another birthday!_

"Although I must say," The Professor said, "that having seen you in action, I'm confident that you'll be a fine Exorcist, perhaps even a General someday. Young Richter was right. That was quite remarkable, but I do apologize! I promised you _Gemütlichkeit_ and instead you get another scar."

"This won't scar," Allen assured him. "Not for very long anyway."

"I could find some horsehair if you like!" the Professor said, his eyes twinkling.

"No, thank you!" Allen laughed.

"In that case, let's go, before we're scolded for making dinner wait! I know you're not used to it," The Professor said as he locked the office door behind them and led Allen to the building's foyer, "but it's because of that that just for tonight, I want you to consider our home to be yours and us to be your family. Anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. Please!" he said, as Allen opened his mouth to object. "Indulge us! Our children are grown, so it will be a pleasure, and we became supporters to help the Exorcists, an honor we rarely experience so directly. You would be doing us a great favor."

Allen had a feeling that it was not The Professor's children he was being asked to stand in for, but his sister, that help rendered to any Exorcist was help rendered to her. It was too little and too late to save her, but there was nothing else The Professor could do. "Thank you, sir," Allen said.

"No, Allen, thank you. A child like you has good reason to bear a grudge against those who did not intervene as well as those who mistreated you, and yet you set it aside to fight for us. That's a far greater sacrifice than most people realize, and I am grateful that you're willing to make it."

Allen didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't people he was fighting for, it was the Demons. "I was born with this arm. I'm just glad it has a purpose," he said, and they stepped out into the cerise light of evening.

* * *

**Notes, part 2**

Mattias came out of nowhere and insisted on taking over an entire chapter, so I'm glad people liked him. He didn't give me much choice about whether or not to include him.

Sammi, thank you, and I'm glad chapter 7 isn't confusing anymore.

GreenGreyBlue, write like me? Ha ha ha! All you have to do is write like a madwoman for a few hours, convinced it's that all brilliant, sit on it for a week or two, rewrite, then print it, realize that it's incoherent crap, and spend the next several weeks revising, armed with a dictionary and thesaurus. If I'm lucky, the final product has about 1/2 of what I wrote originally. The line "To him that is ready to perish" was indeed about Mattias. It's from Proverbs 31:6-7, which Mattias quotes in full. Hope I didn't just go overboard on Allen's past! The Victorian Era was amazingly horrible, and coping as best one could was often as good as it got. Really, truly doing the right thing was (and still is) often impossible, and that's the dilema I keep putting Allen through.

Guest, thank you! I based that aspect of Allen on my housemate, who has a black belt but doesn't dare leave home without his GPS. It's like some kind of brain failure.

EsTeLweNadia, thank you. I thought that after traveling with Cross for so long, Allen would have a hard time shaking his tendency to try to anticipate his Master's moods, and I gave that habit a kind of voice. I'm glad you like it.


	10. Confession

**Confession**

Allen sat glaring at the ocean. He was so close, so bloody close, but no the English Channel had the gall to be so rough that the ferry wasn't running.

"Damn it!" he said, throwing a handful of wet sand.

The ocean responded with another crashing roar, and the wind whipped what should have been a light drizzle across his face like a cat 'o nine.

"_Âllo?"_ a voice called, and Allen turned to see a woman coming up behind him. Her bonnet was tied snugly under her chin and she held her shawl tight around her shoulders, but the most remarkable thing about her was that she was very, very pregnant.

Allen scrambled to his feet, trying to brush the sand from the back of his overcoat. "Ma'am, are you all right?" he asked in French. "Should you be out here?"

She looked more closely at him, then laughed. "I was about to ask you the same thing! I thought you were an old man who had wandered off. My goodness, what happened to your face?"

"I was injured when I was a child," he said, surprised at her bluntness. "Are you sure it's safe for you to be out?"

She smiled. "My back hurts and it feels better if I walk."

"But in this weather?" There was something about her overly-round belly that made Allen extremely nervous.

"I like this weather," she said. "It suits me. What are you doing out here? You look like you should be at home yourself."

"I was going to take the ferry to Dover today, but it's not running," Allen said.

"That doesn't tell me what you're doing out here."

Giving the sea a piece of his mind? Not that it was doing any good! "I guess I just wanted to see the ocean," he said. "I haven't in a while."

She offered her hand. "My name is Charlotte. What's yours?"

"Allen."

"It's nice to meet you, Allen. If you wouldn't mind the company, I'd be happy if you walked with me."

She tucked a stray lock of hair back into her bonnet, and he saw that although she was only in her early twenties, the kindest thing that could be said of her was that she was plain, and her cheeks and forehead had the kind of scars that came from having had severe spots. It explained her candor. She knew what it was like to have people turn away from scars. "I'd love to," he said, offering his arm.

"Thank you," she said. "You're going to England?" she asked as they started walking down the beach. The waves and wind meant they had to walk close and almost shout to be heard.

"London," he said. "Visiting a friend."

"Are you traveling with your parents then? Do they know where you are? I would think they would be worried about you right now."

"I'm an orphan."

"Oh, I'm sorry! That must have been awful, losing your parents."

"I don't remember them," he said. "They abandoned me when I was a baby." It felt strange to say that to a woman who was so near to giving birth herself.

"Oh!" she said softly. "Oh, that's hard! Were you raised in an orphanage?"

"The circus," he said.

"It isn't fair, is it," she said after a moment, "how easy some can have it and how hard it is for others, and it isn't even a question of being at fault. Those who have it easy have no greater or lesser fault than the rest. We're all equally guilty and innocent." She turned to him and smiled. "I guess that's my way of saying that it wasn't your fault."

"It was, in a way," he said.

"What could you have possibly done as an infant to deserve abandonment?"

"I was born with a deformed arm."

Her hand tightened for a moment on his forearm. "I guess it's your other one. It doesn't look withered or anything, not under your sleeve anyway."

"No, it just looks very strange."

"In ancient Greece, they use to leave deformed babies in clay pots by the roadside to die. Are we more civilized now, or less?" She laughed. "Don't answer that! It doesn't deserve an answer. Most of my questions don't. Even so, that wasn't your fault. You couldn't help what you were born with." She paused, her hand going to the small of her back.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his heart fluttering in his throat.

"Oh, it's nothing, just my back." She took a deep breath, and the moment seemed to pass. "It's been acting up on and off for the last few days, but it's to be expected. I'm so off balance! I feel like a great battleship, or a whaler, or a whale, or something else very large. I can't even tie my own boots anymore, and they barely fit around my ankles. It's all my sister can do to even get them on me."

"Your sister?" he asked. "Is she staying with you?" He had a vague idea that it was a woman's mother who came to stay in the later stages of her confinement, but perhaps she had lost her mother.

"No, I'm staying with them, with my parents and the two who are still at home." She sighed into the wind. "My husband's ship has been missing in the Indian Ocean for almost a month now."

"I'm sorry!" Allen said, his heart sinking. He knew those were the most dangerous waters in the world.

"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "We're both alone in our own ways, and we both ended up on the beach in a storm. I would say there was something fated about it, but I don't believe in fate, at least I shudder to think that anything so capricious and cruel as fate exists. Events don't happen for any particular reason, it's just that things wash up eventually."

She spoke as if she was talking to herself, as if she wasn't really used to company, but she probably wasn't. She would have had a terrible time of it as a young girl. As long as a boy could prove himself, a few scars could be overlooked, if not admired. For a girl, however, scars were unforgivable, because the only way a girl had to prove herself was her beauty. It must have taken an exceptional man to look past her face and her rambling thoughts long enough to see someone worth marrying.

"He might still be all right," Allen said. "Maybe they were just blown off course." He didn't hold out much hope for it, but he wanted to offer her what little hope there might be.

"Maybe," she said. "I would like to say that I try not to think about it, but of course that wouldn't be true. I think about it all the time. It's why I take my walks by the sea. I can talk to him here, tell him things I never got a chance to before he left and won't have the courage to say if he comes back."

"Be careful!" Allen said. Grief, he knew, was the most dangerous emotion of all.

"What do you mean?" she asked, then she pressed her hand to her belly.

"Are you all right?" Allen asked, every sense on alert as if he were going into battle.

"They kick," she said, "and squirm, and there just isn't enough space for it. He—or she—hasn't been moving around much lately, so I'm glad, even if it's uncomfortable." Then she looked at him, smiling, the kindness in her eyes startlingly beautiful in her plain face. "You've never been around pregnant women, have you?"

"No, ma'am." He'd seen them, of course, but had never had any reason to interact with them.

"Here." She stopped walking, and set his hand on the side of that taut curve. "Feel that?"

Even through her dress and her coat, Allen felt something push back against his palm, and realization sent an electrical shock through him. She was carrying an entire, living human being curled inside her.

His astonishment must have shown on his face. "It's remarkable, isn't it?" she asked as she took his arm again. "Every female mammal faces the possibility, so it's hardly a miracle, but it's remarkable all the same, not to mention uncomfortable. Better than sitting on eggs, I suppose. I wouldn't be able to leave the nest at all. Now, what was it you wanted me to be careful of?"

Allen took a deep breath, and told her about Mana and the Earl.

"Do you mind," she said when he finished, "if I don't tell you that I believe you? I don't disbelieve you," she added quickly. "I believe that you remember it that way, and I have no other explanation for that hand or that scar. It's just that…well…Demons. I go to church, of course, because that's what one does, but I don't really believe in any of it, not angels, not demons, not even God. I've never admitted that to anyone before."

"It's all right," he said. His own relationship with God was a little unusual.

"I cannot believe that a God who loves us would let us suffer unless it's a punishment, and if it's a punishment, then this is hell, and if I'm in hell, I want to know why." She blinked, but it could have been the wind and rain. "If I'm going to be punished like this, I would at least like to be told why and have a chance to apologize, maybe make things right if I can. As it is, though, if there is a God, a loving God who only hurts us to punish us, then I'm in hell and I don't know why. Either He doesn't exist, or He doesn't care. It's funny, though," she said. "I can't believe in God or demons or exorcism, but I can almost believe in the Earl. People turning each other into weapons, that I can believe in." She laughed, without any humor in it at all. "I guess I'm better at despair than hope."

It must be so hard, Allen thought, to be alone like this, pregnant with her husband missing but not yet presumed dead. Even having family nearby would only ease the stress, not relieve the pain. "Just be careful," he said. "It's one thing to miss someone. It's another to wish them back."

"I know," she said. "I don't come here to wish him back. I just come here to talk in a place where I can't be overheard. Do you remember your mother at all?"

"No," Allen said. In fact, this was the first time he'd ever thought much about her, but walking with Charlotte made him realize that someone had once carried him like this, off-balance and unwieldy with her back aching and her ankles swollen, and he knew nothing at all about her.

Charlotte sighed, looking out into the rain, her hand once more on the small of her back. "It's strange. We believe that mothers instinctively love their babies, but you're living proof that that's not true, and there are so many others just like you. Even when mothers don't abandon children they don't want, they may grow to hate their children someday if they don't like how they turn out, and yet we cling to this idea that every woman has this unconditional love inside her that incubates with each baby. It's like God. I suppose we want to believe that someone out there feels that way about us, even when we have no evidence that it's true." Then she stopped, her hand on her lower back and a strange frown on her face. "Oh dear! You know something? I think maybe I'd better go back after all."

Allen's blood ran suddenly cold. Nothing anyone had ever said to him had frightened him so much.

She laughed. "Don't worry! There's plenty of time. Babies don't come all at once. It takes hours, and it could be a false alarm. There have been a few."

"Um…" Allen said, completely out of his depth and floundering badly. "I…I'll take you home." It was the only thing he could think of to do, and he had an overwhelming sense that he should do something.

"Thank you, but really, don't worry! We don't have very far to go and we have lots of time to get there."

They walked in silence, pausing every ten minutes or so so she could breathe through her pains. Each time, Allen was terrified that something would happen, but each time she would draw a few deep breaths, smile and move forward again. They went on like this, past the casinos and hotels and into the city until they reached a small house. Charlotte brought Allen in and introduced him to her parents, her sister and her younger brother.

Her father and brother left right away to fetch the doctor, and her sister took her upstairs.

"Thank you for bringing her back," her mother said to Allen, giving him a disdainful look. "I'm so sorry I can't offer you anything, but you understand…"

"Of course," Allen said. The last place he wanted to be was a house where a woman was giving birth.

"I suppose we owe you news at least. Where are you staying?"

Allen gave her the name of the inn, thinking that although it seemed that Charlotte inherited her face from her mother, they did not share the same temperament. It went beyond their treatment of him and into their treatment of themselves. Where Charlotte dressed simply, her mother's clothes were more fashionable and a great deal of fuss had been made over her hair. Allen would have liked to tell her that it made her look foolish rather than pretty, but he didn't.

"How long will you be there?"

"A few days," Allen said. It was a spontaneous change of plans on his part, but he didn't want to leave without knowing that Charlotte was all right.

"I'll send René when it's over. Now I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

"Of course," Allen said. "If I'm not at the inn, just leave a message and I'll call here before I go."

He walked back out into the rain and into the familiar feeling of having no idea where he was relative to where he was supposed to be. "I know you don't like getting wet," he said quietly to Tim, "but I need your help."

Timcanpy wriggled out of his pocket and flew upward, his wings dragging in the wind as he led Allen back to the inn.

The rest of the day passed in a kind of haze. He found a poker game, but he didn't play very well. Somehow, his Master's debts, the game itself, all of it seemed unimportant compared to what was going on in that house. Allen knew very little about childbirth, but he knew enough to know that there were a million things that could go wrong and only one that could go right. Someone might be being born, but someone might also be dying, and once the process began, there was no stopping it until it came to its natural conclusion.

When he got back to his room, he sat for a while, wishing he could get drunk just to get his mind off all of the horrible possibilities that kept going through it. He took his cards out, shuffling them absently, not so much practicing as fidgeting, and when he finally went to bed, he lay in the dark for a long time, playing with Timcanpy.

He could have left the following morning. The Channel was calmer and the ferry back on schedule, but he stayed at the inn, waiting, wondering if Charlotte was all right, if she and her family had forgotten about him, or if something had happened to her. For lack of anything at all to do, he took out his cards and dealt the most complicated game of Patience he knew how to play.

Just before noon, Charlotte's brother came. She'd had a healthy baby boy in the early hours, and now that she was rested, she would see him.

He retrieved his suitcase, tucked Timcanpy into his pocket, settled his bill, and left.

There was no welcome in Charlotte's mother's greeting, just a chilly formality. "We're grateful to you for bringing her back yesterday. I'll take you upstairs."

"Thank you," Allen said.

Charlotte was sitting up in bed, wearing a light-green wrapper with a loose jacket over it. Her face was pale from exhaustion, which only made her scars look worse, and she was smiling, not so much out of happiness, he thought, but out of something else. In her arms was a small bundle wrapped in white flannel. "Allen!" she said. "Thank you for coming. I would like you to meet Emmanuel."

Allen had seen babies, but never a newborn, not up close, and it looked very strange. Its small, wizened face peeked out from its swaddling, and a tiny hand worked its way free to rub more or less at one of its eyes as the toothless mouth yawned. "He's lovely," Allen said, and while it wasn't true, it wasn't quite false, either. There was something endearing in its strangeness.

"Mama, please leave us," Charlotte said.

Charlotte's mother looked disapprovingly at Allen.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mother, Allen is just a boy! This is not a situation that requires a chaperone."

"Hmph!" Charlotte's mother looked almost rebellious, but she left the room anyway, shaking her head.

"Do you want to hold him?" Charlotte asked, offering Allen the bundle in her arms.

"Ah…!" Allen was sure that he would hold it wrong or drop it or something.

"Sit down next to me," she said. "Now hold your arms just like you see mine. That's right." She laid the baby very gently in Allen's arms. "See? He's nothing to be afraid of. Just make sure to support his head. His neck's too wobbly for him to hold it up on his own."

The baby was no bigger or heavier than a cat, and although Allen expected it to start crying, it just wriggled a little, settling itself against him as it slept.

"I suppose after our conversation on the beach, you're wondering why I gave him such a religious name," she said.

"I thought it was your husband's," Allen said.

She laughed. "No. One Julian in the family is enough! I almost wanted to name him after you, but that didn't feel right, so I named him after your father instead."

"Mana?" Allen asked, stunned.

"That's what he'll be called at home."

Allen swallowed back a knot of tears. This meant more to him than having a namesake of his own. "Thank you."

The baby moved, stretching a little, and Allen stiffened.

Charlotte laughed. "You never had younger brothers or sisters or cousins or anything like that," Charlotte said, "so you've never had a chance to get used to babies, but you shouldn't be scared of them. After all, you'll be a father yourself someday."

"I don't know about that," Allen said, but if he tried to think that far into the future, it faded into black. Marriage and children didn't seem possible for Exorcists. Still, underneath his fear there was a soft, quiet peace that seemed to radiate from this tiny person, and it brought out something protective in return. He didn't think he could bear to hear it cry.

"Of course you don't want to now," Charlotte said, "but you might feel quite differently in ten years." She lifted her baby out of Allen's arms, settling it against her shoulder. "I asked you to come because I wanted to tell you something."

"What?" he asked, relieved that he was no longer in any way responsible for the baby's peace and well-being.

"I met him this morning," Charlotte said.

"Who?" Allen asked, trying to figure out who she could possibly be talking about.

"The Earl."

Allen's heart stopped.

"He asked me if I wanted the baby to meet his father. He said he had a new body ready, and all I had to do was call Julian back." There were tears streaming down her face, and Allen watched her lose her fight for control. "He's dead. There's no doubt anymore, is there? The Earl wouldn't have come unless he was dead."

Allen sat frozen with pity and helplessness as she clung to her baby, sobbing. The door opened, and her mother came in. "Is the baby all right?" she whispered.

"Yes," Allen said. "She had a dream last night that upset her."

"About Julian, right?"

Allen nodded.

Her mother sighed. "I suppose that's to be expected. I'll stay with her now. You may go."

"No, Mama," Charlotte said, wiping her eyes. "I still need to talk to him. Please give us a few minutes."

Charlotte's mother looked at Allen, frowning. "I don't think your husband would approve of this."

"Oh, Mother, the only reason Julian might have for being jealous is if somebody starts telling tales, and it won't be me," Charlotte said. "If Allen were my student, you would see no need to keep poking your nose in here."

"Your students don't sit on your bed," her mother pointed out.

Allen realized that Charlotte's mother valued her daughter's husband more than she valued her daughter

"I thought he might like to hold the baby," Charlotte said.

"Well, he isn't holding it now, so perhaps it's time for him to leave."

Alan saw a flicker of fear in Charlotte's eyes, but she stood her ground. "He'll be leaving soon anyway. There's no reason to rush him out the door, especially after all he did for me yesterday."

"Very well," Charlotte's mother said, "But I won't be answerable for it." And she closed the door a little too firmly.

Charlotte gasped for breath as if coming up from the bottom of the sea. "I'm sorry, Allen. I just didn't know who else would understand. But I saw him, I really saw him."

Most women in her position would do anything to get their husbands back, but the future she faced was just as bleak in its way as his own. "You were braver than I was," he said, "and less selfish."

She shook her head. "No. I wasn't brave, and my thoughts were very selfish. I knew that if I called him back, he would kill us, and I thought he deserved it. I thought he deserved to be trapped for eternity knowing he had murdered his wife and son."

The hair on Allen's arms rose. He knew she felt very strongly about her husband, but he didn't realize that it was hate, not love.

"It would have solved everything," she said. "All I had to do was say yes, and I wanted to. I wanted to so much. Allen, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" She stroked her baby's head, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "Even though you warned me, I almost brought another Demon into this world. Although the problem is that I might have anyway."

"I understand your mother," Charlotte went on. "It's hard to think you've had a hand in creating a monster, and for nine months, that's what I've been thinking. Julian…Julian was a monster, and I've felt sick inside ever since I found out I was pregnant. But Allen, your mother doesn't know, she doesn't know where you are or how you're growing up, she doesn't know that she was wrong. She couldn't see the future. She was just guessing. She looked at your arm, and she guessed, and she was wrong."

"I hate Julian," she said. "I will hate him until the day I die, but this little one isn't Julian. He's someone else, someone new. Maybe he'll turn out like his father, but maybe he won't, and it was that chance that I decided to live for. Alive or dead, Julian would be a demon, but this little one might not be, and I can't know for sure just by knowing who his father is, just as your mother couldn't know how you would turn out by looking at your hand."

She turned to Allen, setting her palm on his scarred cheek. "You're growing up so strong and brave and kind. If your mother could see you now…that's just it, you know? If my son grows up like you, I want to see it."

What would his mother think of him? He didn't seem, to himself, like someone a mother would be proud of.

"You must think I'm a horrible person," Charlotte said.

"No," Allen said. This was beyond any experience he would ever have. Even if he became a father, he would never know what it was like to spend nine months carrying the child of someone he hated, never mind how it felt to endure the pain of bringing it into the world and then face the burden of raising it alone. She really was in hell, bound to this baby as surely as a soul was bound to a Demon, and it was beyond his abilities as an Exorcist to save her.

She sighed. "You really are kind! Allen, I'm going to tell you something that I will never tell anyone else. Will you keep my secret?"

"Yes." It would be easy, because he was leaving that day.

"I don't love my baby." She began to cry again. "I know I'm supposed to, but I don't." She wiped at her face. "I think I can take care of him, though. I've made up my mind that I'm going to take care of him, because I want to be there if he grows up to be someone good." The baby fussed, and Charlotte reached for the top button of her dress. "Excuse me, Allen."

"I'll leave now," he said, rising.

"No, just give me a minute to settle him. I want to ask you something, if you can still stand me."

Allen turned his back, trying not to listen to the rustle of fabric and soft, wet sounds behind him. "I can still stand you," he said.

"Thank you. You can turn around now, and please sit down." She nodded toward a chair by the bedside table.

She had tucked the baby's head under her jacket, covering everything except a little hand that clutched at the fabric. "I suppose you're wondering why I married a man I hate," she said, her face quieter, as if nursing her baby calmed her.

"Um…" Allen knew that there were many reasons for getting married, the least common of which was love.

She gave a soft, short laugh. "I didn't have much choice. A girl with a face like mine doesn't get many suitors, and I wasn't getting any younger, or prettier. What few other men had spoken to me were much older, with children from other wives, and they were very clear that I had better be a good housekeeper or they wouldn't have anything to do with me. Of course my parents were thrilled that he was paying any attention to me at all. I should have known it was too good to be true!" She began to cry again. "Once I was his, he could do anything he wanted."

Traveling with his Master had showed Allen the many ways in which each sex preyed on the other, exploiting weakness or naiveté, using looks, power, money or position as weapons, or taking the unseverable bond of marriage as permission to commit terrible abuses. It didn't take much to put the pieces of this one together.

"Do you see now why I wanted to turn him into a Demon? Because maybe that way, he'd be sorry. Maybe if he was a Demon, he'd regret what he did and suffer for it." She smiled at Allen, a little ruefully. "But if I turned him into a Demon, you'd see him and kill him, so it wouldn't last long. But he would have deserved it."

It was astonishing how difficult it was to tell the difference between love and hate, Allen thought. Both were such strong emotions that they could be indistinguishable from the outside. Apparently, even the Earl didn't always know, or perhaps he could use feelings other than grief and guilt to make his Demons. "I didn't know you felt that way," he said. "Otherwise, I don't think I would've told you about the Earl."

She smiled softly. "I'm glad you did, because I understood what I was choosing. I'm free now. I don't know what I'm going to do or how we're going to live, but I'm free of him." She brushed her finger along her baby's hand. "What happens to souls that don't get turned into Demons? That's what I wanted to ask you."

"I don't know," he said. "I can tell you this much, though. Being a Demon is awful for them, but I think it's mostly because of how much they loved the person who turned them into one. If he didn't love you, Julian might not have minded being a Demon."

She heaved a great sigh. "If being a Demon meant he got to go around killing people, he probably would have enjoyed it. Thank you, Allen. For everything." She smiled. "I wonder if your mother will ever know what a wonderful son she had? Maybe this little guy and I will come to hate each other, but if he grows up to be someone wonderful, I want to know. I don't want to wonder for the rest of my life what became of him, and I'm the sort of person who would. Did your mother name you Allen?"

"No," he said. "Mana gave me that name." Not deliberately, but it was the only name Allen had ever had.

"I know what I'm supposed to say," Charlotte said. "I'm supposed to say that your mother surely named you something, even if it was just in her heart, but she might not have. She might have washed her hands of you and walked away happy. It's funny. Ever since I got married, I've been able to see the dark side of things, the coldness that people harbor in their hearts. I can even see the coldness in my own heart, my own selfishness and cruelty. I hope I can keep it in check for this little one's sake."

"I think you will," Allen said. However she might see the world, her husband or herself, in the entire time Allen had been there, the baby had done nothing more than fuss and she had tended to it right away.

"I hope you're right." The baby moved, and she set him down on her lap, buttoning her dress under the jacket before she lifted the child to her shoulder again, patting its back. "For the last two days," she said, "you have been my confessor. Now it's your turn. Tell me something you cannot tell anyone else except a stranger you will never see again."

"I told you about my father," he said.

"There's more. I know there is."

Her confession had struck a chord somewhere deep inside him, on strings that were out of tune and gave off a sound that he didn't like to listen to. However much he might think he was doing the right thing, the safest thing, there was a sense that something in him was being pulled too tight, or perhaps allowed to slip until it was too loose. "I don't love anyone," he blurted out. "I loved Mana, but I don't love anyone else, and I don't want to."

"Thank you," she said. "You should go now, if you want to catch your ferry."

He rose, painfully aware that there was nothing he could do for them, and he wanted to leave before he started thinking that he should try anyway, just because somebody should. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for calling him Mana."

She smiled. "Thank you for offering such a wonderful name. I didn't know what I was going to do. I couldn't bear to call him Julian. I can barely stand to hear that name at all, but of course everyone was insisting. Emmanuel has the sort of meaning one can get away with in these circumstances, and Mana is the name of someone kind enough to take in an orphan with a deformed arm and raise him into a gentleman. I just hope you don't think your father poorly served by having a widow's son named after him."

"No," Allen said. "Mana was a traveling clown. I don't think he would mind."

"Don't worry, I will take care of him," Charlotte said. "I can't promise him an easy life and I can't promise he won't turn out like his father, but I can promise you that I'll take the best care of him that I can."

The baby had gone back to sleep. Allen touched its cheek, very lightly, and its head turned, its lips moving against his finger. Suddenly, it all came together that this was a whole new person who would, in this small but significant way, carry on the memory of his father, and he was no longer quite so afraid of it. "Goodbye, Mana." He ran his hand over the downy head, then wiped his face and looked at Charlotte, whose cheeks were streaked with tears, not pain, as he'd first thought, but relief.

"Thank you," she said. "I have made my confession, and now I shall do my penance and hope to be reconciled. Perhaps someday you will be, too, and who knows? Maybe when the final reckoning comes, we will see each other again, and I will be able to tell you how he turned out."

At last, he recognized her smile. It wasn't happiness. It was resolve.

When he got downstairs, he found her mother very busy doing nothing in particular, probably waiting to be rid of him. She was cold in her farewell, but he expected nothing else. She'd made it clear that she not only feared her son-in-law's jealousy, she respected it, perhaps even approved of it. Had Allen been planning to stay in town, he might have made an effort to win her over, but he wasn't, and anyway Charlotte's husband was dead. Her mother could think what she chose.

It was raining, but without the wind, the drizzle was just a drizzle. He lifted his face toward the window, toward the room where Charlotte sat with her baby. "Mana," he whispered. There was someone in this world called Mana.

He felt as if a missing piece had fallen into place, but come to think of it, he had already started on his penance. He had just never made his confession before, not to anyone, but it had never seemed wise. His Master would have sneered at him and others would have been hurt, but his secret would be safe with Charlotte. She didn't need him to love her. She only needed someone to know that she was going to carry her burden in the direction she herself had chosen, and that secret was safe with him.

Allen fished Timcanpy out of his pocket, in spite of a protesting wriggle. "Oh, come out and help me!" he said. "We can leave now, but you're going to have to get me to the docks first."

Tim shook himself, spraying water in Allen's face, looked first one way then another, and flew off, with Allen following close behind.

* * *

**Author's notes: **

Sammi, thank you! And yes, it would be fun to see how those pompous a-holes reacted to the Sword of Exorcism scar!

Sedentary Wordsmith, thank you! I only wish I was a genius. It would make this process a lot faster and smoother. As it is, I have to put in a ton of time getting facts and thoughts as straight as I can, figuring out what to keep and what to delete, rewriting (repeatedly), cleaning up the mess left behind from rewriting, etc. I envy people who can just write and have things turn out more or less okay after a revision or two.

The next chapter is the longest, so expect a bit of a delay.


	11. Innocence

**Author's note: **I'm sorry this took so long. I had to make some changes in how I work, and it slowed me down. I used voice recognition for some of this, and it generates its own special brand of typos, so if you catch something, please let me know.

Additional notes follow.

* * *

**Innocence**

Even before the ferry docked in Dover, Allen heard whispers of terror. People were vanishing into thin air. Some said it was the work of a crazed killer, like the wave of murders that struck Whitechapel ten years before, but others insisted that a crazed killer would leave evidence behind. Only clothing and belongings could be found, without a trace of blood, and anyway these were respectable people, not the kind of low-lifes who were killed in London. Surely there had to be some kind of explanation, and a reward was being offered for information leading to it.

As far as Allen was concerned, the whole thing reeked of Demons.

His original plan had been to go straight from the ferry to the station. If he took the next train, he could be in London in a matter of hours, and this leg of his journey, at least, would be over. His plans changed even before he got off the boat. He would find a place to stay, then see if newspaper reports of the disappearances could help him track down his Demon.

Allen felt the slightest pressure on his coat, as if someone had brushed up too close in the press of people on the docks. He grabbed, missed, then took off running after the small, quick figure that darted through the crowd, even before he put his hand in his pocket to find out what was missing.

When he realized what had been stolen, he cursed fluently. Timcanpy was gone. Of all the things that could have been taken, Tim was the worst, his compass, his map, his companion, his link to his Master.

His Master would never forgive him.

That alone was enough to keep him running, poking his head into alleys and doorways, even though he knew it was hopeless. The thief was probably well away by now. Allen wondered what they'd make of Tim once they had a chance to look at him, if Tim had made any effort to escape or how he'd find the tiny golem in a city this size.

"Psst! Oy!"

The voice came from farther down an alley, and when Allen looked, he saw a boy of about nine or ten beckoning to him.

"What?" Allen asked.

The boy opened his hand, revealing a little winged ball. "Here. This isn't the sort of thing where you can just buy another one, so you should have it back. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take anything important."

Allen stared dumbfounded at the thief, who held Tim on his outstretched hand. The boy was tall for his age, shorter than Allen by a only few inches, with a round face, wide blue eyes, and longish brown hair. His shirt too big and his trousers too small, and there was a yellowing bruise on his cheekbone. The strangest part was Tim, who sat quietly on the child's hand, making no move to go back to Allen.

A street kid, Allen thought, stealing to eat. He'd been there himself, or close to it. "Thank you," Allen said, reaching for Tim who finally stirred, lifting himself into the air and hovering between them.

The thief gasped, his hand going to his mouth. "I didn't know it could do that! What is it?"

"It's a golem," Allen said.

"A what?"

"A machine."

"That's a machine?" The thief was entranced. "Did you make it?"

"No. Someone gave it to me."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" the thief said, although even as he said it, he was reaching for Tim, poking at one of the golem's tiny hands. Tim, to Allen's surprise, poked back. "The way the tail was dangling, I thought it was a watch. I had no idea it was anything like this."

Allen knew he should be angry, but instead he was watching the child play with Tim, who was rolling in the air as the boy laughed with delight. Allen reached into his pocket. "Here," he said, offering a handful of coins.

The boy looked at him with wide eyes, then shook his head. "No. I must have given you such a fright. I can't take anything from you after that."

Who was this child, and how had he survived like this? "But you'll have to steal something else."

The boy sighed. "I'll steal something else. I hate to, but I didn't think it was going to take this long. Look, I'm really sorry. I took your golem and now I'm taking up your time. Thank you for being so kind." And with that, he turned to go.

"Wait!" Allen grabbed his arm. Nothing about this was adding up, and he wanted to know why. "I'm lost. I got lost chasing you, and I need someplace where I can stay for a few nights. If you want to make it up to me for stealing Tim, help me."

"Tim?" the boy asked.

"The golem. His name is Tim."

"You named it? I am sorry! That was so awful of me, taking it. All right. I know an inn not far from here."

"Thank you." Allen held out his hand. "I'm Allen."

"Oh!" The boy hesitated, then took the hand, his grasp soft and uncertain. "I'm…um…Florian."

Why had he lied? There was no reason to. No, wait. Allen took a harder look at the figure in front of him. The loose shirt made it hard to be sure, but Allen was in a better position than most to be able to distinguish certain things by touch. "Your name isn't Florian," he said, keeping hold of that hand. "It's Flora, right? You're a girl."

She nodded and swallowed hard, her face going pale, and he could feel her tense, ready to run if she had a chance.

"Why are you doing this?" Allen asked. "It's dangerous."

She looked at him, her lower lip tight with defiance. "I have to find my Dad."

Allen grabbed Timcanpy and tucked him into his pocket, making sure the golem's tail was properly hidden. "Show me this inn. I'll buy you supper, and you can tell me about your father."

"Why?" she asked.

That was actually a very good question, and Allen stumbled for the answer. "Because my father's dead. And Tim likes you. He could have gotten away, but he didn't, and there has to be a reason."

She glanced at his pocket. "I thought you said it was a machine."

"He is, but he's special. He can think on his own, and he stayed with you until I found you. I want to know why. He can't talk, so it's up to you. I'm not asking you to go anywhere private with me," he said reassuringly. "I just want to understand."

She looked at him, her gaze level, assessing. "All right," she said. "And I'm sorry about your father. My Mum died two weeks ago. I know how much it hurts."

Allen had a bad feeling about this, made even worse when they passed a newsboy who was waving an extra with the headline of another disappearance.

The inn was in the Pier District, the kind of place frequented by working class travelers. The landlord gave Flora a quick nod. "Any luck today, lad?" he asked, leaving Allen to wonder how long she'd been in town.

"No, sir," Flora said, then they took a table in the corner, where they could talk in private.

When Flora heard Allen give his order, she gaped at him. "You can't be serious!" she said after the waitress left.

He shrugged. "I eat a lot."

"That isn't just a lot! You eat more than all three of my brothers combined."

So she had some family after all, which only deepened the mystery. "Where are your brothers?"

"Home."

"Where's home?"

"A village west of here."

"Why are you here by yourself?" Why would a girl with brothers be miles from home all alone?

"Because nobody else could come."

"You shouldn't have come!" Allen said. Now that he had a closer look at her, he figured her to be about his age, and she was vulnerable in every way that he was and then some.

"What else was I supposed to do?" she asked, clearly on the verge of tears. "We can't do it ourselves. We tried, and we can't."

"Can't do what?" Allen asked.

"We have a sheep farm," Flora said between sniffles. "That's what my family does, we raise sheep. There are four of us left, me, my brother Rhys—he's seventeen—and Andy and Martin. They're ten and six. And it's just too much. When Mum died, it was bad enough, but without Dad, we can't do it."

Which would leave all four children in the orphanage or worse. "Tell me what happened to your parents," he said.

Flora wiped her face and rested her cheek on her fist, staring at the table. "Two weeks ago, my mother died. She was sick for a while so it wasn't sudden. My father…" She sighed. "He couldn't take it. For two days, he was out with the sheep at sunrise and home after sunset, and then on the third day, he vanished."

"Why do you think he's here?"

"Because he bought a ticket here. This is where my mother is from. I think he came to Dover because of her."

Allen felt his heart sink. If he wasn't mistaken, he'd just found his Demon.

A newly-made Demon still had traces of its attachments to the ones it loved. A mother might leave to protect her children, but then again, if this was Flora's mother, why had she gone home? If she'd gone to another town, she wouldn't run the risk of preying on family or old friends.

Perhaps this wasn't Flora's mother after all. Perhaps her father was lost in the places men went to when their lives fell apart, usually the inside of a bottle or a pipe.

"Do your brothers know you're here?"

"Yes. I left them a note."

"A note? They're probably worried sick!" Allen said.

Flora's eyes flashed. "Then maybe Rhys should have thought of that sooner."

"Maybe he thought your Dad would come home on his own."

She shook her head. "No. Allen, he wasn't himself anymore. I don't think he knew what he was doing. If nobody comes after him, I don't think he'll know how to come back."

Allen rattled off a litany of obscenities in his head. This could still be be his Demon. The problem was how to find it before things got worse, and then how to convince Flora to go home without telling her the truth. "Where are you staying?" he asked.

"Here," she said.

He got another bad feeling. "How are you paying for it."

She gave him a wry look.

Allen put his head in his hands. This had to stop. The longer she was here, the more danger she was in. "Go home," he said when he finally looked up.

"No."

He expected equivocation, bargaining, anything but a flat refusal. "What?"

"No."

"What you're doing is incredibly dangerous."

"Don't you get it?" she asked. "There isn't anything else I can do."

"Maybe your older brother will do it once he realizes how much it means to you."

"If he cared about that, I wouldn't be here, and anyway, he's the only one big enough to handle the sheep."

"But you can't keep doing this," Allen insisted. "You can't live like this."

"It's not forever. It's just until I find my Dad."

That didn't make things any better. There were people who would kill to get their hands on a talent like hers, and they wouldn't be kind. "What if you don't find him?" Allen asked, "or what if…?"

"What if he's dead? Then I'll go home. I'll just have to do the best I can no matter what Rhys does, but I have to try to find Dad first."

Although a girl might expect to marry near the age of fifteen, a seventeen-year-old boy was in no position to become the head of a family, and Rhys was probably doing a poor job of it. To Flora, getting their father back was the obvious solution. The problem was that Flora, born and raised in a village, was in no position to understand the city streets, and could get trapped there before she even realized what had happened. "I'll tell you what," Allen said. "I have some time before I have to be in London. I'll help you find your father."

"I stole your machine, and you're going to help me?" She gave him a sideways look.

When she put it that way, it was kind of funny. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Apparently, she wasn't stupid, which meant that she was suicidally naive. "Because if finding your father is the only way to stop you from picking pockets, I'll do it."

She looked at him. "You're either the kindest person I've ever met, or the most manipulative. I'm not sure which. It might be both."

No, she wasn't stupid.

"But I like Tim," she continued, "and I need help. I've been looking for four days, and I can't find Dad, and I want to go home. I just don't want to go home by myself."

"I'll help you, but you have to stop stealing."

She glared at him. "I don't think we're clear. It's not you I want, it's Tim."

"What? He's a machine, he can't do anything!" Allen spluttered.

"He can fly," she said. "Can you?"

"No, but…" He wasn't being rejected, he was being upstaged by his Master's golem, and he had no idea what to make of it. "How is that useful?"

"I think it would be very useful, to be able to fly," she said wistfully. "I have a feeling Tim's very useful," she said, more seriously, "or you wouldn't have him."

"If you want Tim, you're stuck with me" Allen said, trying to regain some control over the situation.

She gave him what would have been a disapproving look had there not been a hint of humor in her eyes. "All right then, I guess I'm stuck with you."

They spent the rest of the evening going over what Flora had already done, and Allen had to admit that she'd been very thorough. She'd checked all of the inns and boarding houses that her father might be able to afford, and had asked around in places that hired casual labor. She'd talked to everyone she could at the train station and the ferry docks, to see if he'd left the city. She'd even gone to the workhouses and casual wards, but no one matching her father's description had been there.

After supper, Allen went to his room, thinking. As far as he could tell, the next step was the underworld, the doss houses, flashhouses, rookeries and opium dens, places he could go without fear, but he could hardly take Flora with him. The problem was that he had no idea what her father looked like. If the man was trying to hide, Allen could be standing right in front of him and be none the wiser.

Of course if Flora's father was a Demon, it would be easy, but that would pose a whole new set of problems. He dried his face and hands, called Tim to him, and left in search of a house he knew, where there was usually a game of something going on.

He stopped in front of Flora's door, hesitating. If he told her he was going out, she'd want to know where and would argue with him. If she wanted to talk to him and didn't find him in his room, she'd probably go looking for him, and that would be worse.

"Tim," he said, fishing the golem out of his pocket.

Timcanpy sat on his hand, waiting.

"Will you keep an eye on Flora for me? Keep her busy, so she doesn't go stealing things."

Tim lifted off, then squeezed through the crack under the door. Allen heard a delighted cry, and smiled as he went down the hall. It was Tim she wanted? She could have him. It would be harder for Allen to get where he was going, but if it kept her out of trouble for a few hours, it would be worth it.

It was a difficult night. He had to assume he'd be in Dover for a little while, so while he needed to win, he couldn't win too much. He came out of the game fifty pounds to the good, enough to hold them for a few days but not enough to attract attention. If it stretched out longer, he could always play again, but he was nervous. He didn't like being in one place for too long.

Then again, he was used to traveling with Cross, who could wreak more havoc in a few days than an army of Demons could in a week. By comparison, an amateur pickpocket was a minor problem.

When he got back, her door was open a few inches, and when he peeked in, he saw that she was reading to Tim as if the golem were a young child. Tim was obliging her, sitting on the table in front of her as if listening. Perhaps he was. Allen leaned his head against the doorframe and watched, wondering how someone could be so sweet and so stubborn at the same time.

He must have made some sound because she turned. "Allen, come in! Where have you been? It's late. I think Tim was worried."

More likely, Flora herself was worried. "I had some things to take care of, that's all."

She simply looked at him, waiting, and the resulting discomfort was like having mice released up his trouser legs, incredible potential for catastrophe if he didn't do something fast. "I was playing poker."

She burst out laughing. "Of all the cheek! Honestly, Allen!"

Now he was irritated. "What?"

"A broadsman lecturing a pickpocket! You're as much of a thief as I am."

"I am not!" Allen said, indignant.

"You are, too! I can't believe you told me not to steal before going out and stealing yourself." She was still laughing.

"That's not what I did!"

"Did you win?" Her laughter became an impish grin.

"Yes," he said, his heart sinking. She had him dead to rights.

"And how often does that happen?"

Okay, maybe she had a point, somewhat, considering that he cheated, but so did everyone else. He was just better at it. "Even if what I do is kind of stealing, and I'm not saying it is, you still need to stop."

"I can't," she said. "You know that, and anyway, you're a fine one to talk."

"It's different for me," Allen said.

"How?"

"I've been doing this for a long time. I'm good at it."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

Okay, fair enough. She was good. If she'd stolen anything but Tim, he would never have caught her. "I can handle the trouble I get into," he said. "You can't."

"You mean you get into fights over this. How much do you usually win?"

"That's not the point!" She was maneuvering the subject in the worst possible direction.

"Yes it is! If you're getting into fights, then you're winning enough to make people angry. Why put yourself through all that? You dress well, but you don't seem to need that much money except for food, so it can't be for yourself. You play poker for the same reason I steal, because you're desperate. You know why I need money so badly. Tell me why you do."

She might be naive in some ways, but in others she was too clever by half. "All right," he said, giving in because it was the best way to shut her up. "When my father died, I was taken in by a man who accumulates enormous amounts of debt. I play poker to pay it off. I don't have any other way."

She nodded. "I thought it might be something like that."

"You did?" he asked, surprised.

"Even natural parents need a child to earn their keep," she said. "Orphans have to work twice as hard. I don't know what to tell you, that I wish you had met someone nicer or that I'm glad you're not climbing up chimneys or worse."

"That's what you're really afraid of," he said as realization dawned. "You're afraid of what will happen to your younger brothers if you and Rhys can't support them." So she did understand, better than he thought, but where the hell was her older brother? Maybe somebody needed to go after her father, but why her?

"Yes," she said. "If the farm fails, Rhys can find work. Maybe I can, too, but I won't make very much and I don't know what will happen to the boys. I just don't want to think about it." Her lip quivered, then tightened.

"Flora," he said softly. "I'm going to help you. We'll find him." But in what condition? If Allen's hunch was right, she would have to go home to whatever mess Rhys was making of it. "What were you reading?" he asked, hoping to distract her before she broke down.

"This." She handed him a worn, leather-bound book. The cover had a beautifully colored picture of an old woman wearing a hat and cloak, a fat white goose at her feet. "My mother used to read these to me when I was little."

It was full of children's poems illustrated with engravings, the kind of thing he'd never had, never even touched before. He'd learned to read from discarded newspapers, and the occasional copy of _Union Jack _because Mana liked Sexton Blake.

He traced around one of the pictures with his finger, afraid to leave marks on it, even though it had obviously been read many times. "It's beautiful."

She drew a deep breath, and wiped her eyes. "You interrupted me while I was reading to Tim, and I think he's upset. Can I finish now?"

Allen smiled and gave her the book back. For a girl with two younger brothers, reading aloud was probably comforting. "All right. Do you mind if I stay and listen?"

"If you want to, that's fine." She sat back down in the chair and faced the golem. "Tim, do you mind if we start the last one over, so that Allen doesn't get confused?"

Tim's wings flicked, and she opened the book, turning the pages until she got to the one she wanted. "'Monday's child is fair of face. Tuesday's child is full of grace. Wednesday's child is filled with woe, Thursday's child has far to go…'"

Allen listened to the ease with which she read aloud, how her voice rose and fell with the verses, thinking that even dressed in boys' clothes, with her hair short and her chest bound, she was so very much a girl.

When she finished, he took Tim back and went to his room to get ready for bed, still wondering why she was there. If he had a little sister, there was no way he would allow her to risk herself like that. It seemed beyond reckless and into irresponsible, even negligent. Was there really no one else to send, no one else to take over the chores, extended family, perhaps a friend or a neighbor? He went to sleep puzzling over how he was going to get her to go home if her father really had turned her mother into a Demon.

He dreamed of oceans, dark and thick, and the sound of rushing wind, but no voices, as if everyone around him had given up calling for him or even mocking him. He'd been forgotten here, left to tread water until he was too exhausted to move, and the wind blew his hair out of his face, tormenting him with the smell of smoke. Someone was here, but who? Where? He tried to swim, but he didn't know which way to go. He wanted to call out, but he couldn't for fear that if he opened his mouth, it would fill with water that wasn't water.

Somehow, through the murk and terror, he heard a soft soprano voice singing a lullaby, not the song he needed to hear but a song nonetheless. He turned toward that voice, swimming after it even though there was no light or air, just moving, moving…

He gasped, stunned to realize that there was air after all, then he fell back, astonished to find that the singing wasn't a dream. Neither were the small fingers that threaded through his hair.

"Flora?" He sat up.

"It's all right, Allen." She was sitting on the edge of his bed, and she brushed his hair back once more before she withdrew her hand. "It's all right."

"What happened?" he asked, rubbing at his face with both hands.

"You were thrashing around like someone was attacking you," she said. "I could hear you through the wall."

He laughed a little as he pulled the sheet up around his chest, finally realizing that he was alone in his room half-dressed at night with a girl. "And so you came in here by yourself?"

"If someone really had been, I was going to scream."

She was a brave, beautiful girl, even if she was unbelievably reckless. "Thank you," he said. "It was really, really stupid of you, but thank you."

"What were you dreaming about?"

"I dreamed I was drowning," he said. He didn't tell her that he was drowning in blood.

"Well, you're not. You're not drowning." She took his left hand in both of hers, very gently. "What happened to your arm?"

"I was born with it like that," he said, surprised by her tone. There was no hint of fear or revulsion, just concern.

"Does it hurt?"

It was a strange, new question. "No. Why do you ask?"

"It looks like it might." She glanced up at him as she touched it, as if she was asking permission from a mother animal to hold its baby.

He nodded.

She explored it very thoroughly, flexing his fingers, running her fingers over the ridges, looking closely at the nails. He was fully awake then, and surprised to find that without her chest bound, she had an amazing figure, especially for fifteen, the placket of her shirt falling in a firm line between the generous swells of her breasts. He found himself simultaneously wondering what she looked like in a dress and wondering what she looked like naked, and started doing sums in his head.

"The skin's so hard! Can you still feel with it?"

At that moment, he could feel nothing but the touch of her hand and that sensation deep in his groin as if a valve in his body had opened, releasing a flood of heat and strength, and he shifted so that she wouldn't see. "Yes. It's stiff, though. I have to exercise it." _Oh, God, that just came out all wrong! _But alone with her in the moonlight, everything was turning into innuendo.

"I can see how that might be." Flora traced the outline of the cross. "What is this, Allen? It feels like it's alive."

"It's a weapon," he said, wondering how she managed to be so collected in this situation.

"A weapon!" She looked at it closely. "How did you come to be born with a weapon in your hand?"

"I don't know," he said. Even his Master didn't seem to know.

"What's it for? What were you born to fight?"

"It's a little complicated," he said.

"You're not going to tell me," she said.

"No. I'm sorry."

"Were you born with this, too?" she asked, brushing her thumb over the inverted pentagram in his forehead.

"No." It would be such a simple thing, he thought, to return that touch, and perhaps pull her in for a kiss.

"What happened?"

He said nothing, unwilling to lie to her but also unwilling to tell her the truth.

"You're not going to tell me that, either." She set his hand down on the bed. "You want to help me, but you won't let me help you. That's not fair, Allen."

"That's not it." he said.

"No? Then what is it?"

"This isn't something you can help me with."

"How do you know if you don't tell me?"

"Because you need a weapon like this."

"And an eye like that, too, right?"

Damn it, why did she have to be so clever? "It helps."

"You know, Allen, you're scaring me by not telling me, because then I'm left to imagine things."

How could she possibly imagine something as bad as Demons? "I'm good at what I do. You don't have to worry."

"Like you're good at playing poker?" She sighed. "If I find out later and it turns out that I could have helped, I'm going to be very cross with you."

More than anything, he wished he could tell her, but even more than that, he didn't want her to ever have to know. "I understand," he said.

"No, you don't." She rose. "Can you sleep now?"

"Yes," he said, fighting the urge to reach for her, ask her to stay, just to hold her in case he started drowning again.

"Think about good things, okay? That way, you'll dream about good things."

It was probably something her mother had said to her, but the implications were the last thing he needed. "Good night, Flora."

"Good night." She gave him one last smile before she shut the door.

He flopped back onto his pillow. "Damn!" he said to the empty darkness.

_There you go again. You can't afford to be a gentleman, idiot apprentice._

_Shut up, Master._

_You'll never be much of a man. Or is it really men you prefer?_

Since he considered what he was to be the lesser of the evils under consideration, the implied insult went in one ear and out the other. _There's a time and a place, and this isn't either, not for her._

_That's what I mean about being too considerate, _the voice said._ If it isn't here and now, it will be never._

_So then it's never,_ Allen thought. _Worse things could happen._ Like if she said yes. She'd be ruined. Still, it would have been easier to go back to sleep if he hadn't been alone.

The first thing he and Flora did after breakfast was argue.

"You have to take me with you," Flora said.

"It's too dangerous," Allen said. "The people I need to talk to aren't very nice."

"But you don't know anything about him," Flora insisted. "You don't even know what he looks like. He could be right in front of you, and you wouldn't know it."

It was the one argument he couldn't counter, so he changed tactics. "Your face is too clean."

"I can fix that!" She stood on tiptoe, ran her fingers along the door lintel, then smeared them on her face, leaving smudges of gray behind.

"How did you know to do that?" Allen asked.

She gave him a look. "I do the dusting at home, and I know when it's being done poorly."

"All right," he said. If he didn't take her with him, she would probably try to follow. "As far as anyone's concerned, you're my brother."

She nodded.

"Let me do the talking. I know how to handle these people."

She nodded again.

"And if I tell you to run, you run straight here, as fast as you can. This is the only place you're safe, and it's only because the landlord knows you. If you're grabbed in the street, no one will bat an eye and it will take me too long to find you."

"What about you?"

Why had he known she'd start up again over this? "I can handle myself."

"But what if there's more than one of them?"

"I can handle more than one."

"But what if someone has a knife or a gun?"

Now what? He fumed for a minute, then decided what the hell? She'd already seen him with his shirt off, so he unbuttoned it.

Flora blushed. "Um…Allen?"

He took in the blush with a certain amount of satisfaction. Good to know she wasn't completely immune! He pulled his shirt to the side, so she could see the still-red streak just under his ribs where Artino had shot him. "There were three guns. Only one of them hit me, and this was the best he could do. I can handle a gun, and I'll be able to handle it better if I know you're out of the way. Do you understand?"

Flora nodded, her face a little pale. "How many of those scars are from fights?" she asked quietly

"A lot of them." Perhaps he had overdone it a bit. "Don't worry. I'll have Tim with me, and he really is very useful."

"He can fly," she said, swallowing hard. "He'll be more help than I will."

"Right, and he's been in fights with me before. He knows what I need him to do. I need to change my clothes. Leave your door open so I'll know you're ready."

"I will."

He went to his room and pulled out the clothes he brought with him for when he needed to pass as a street urchin, then he followed Flora's example, running his fingers over the door lintel for the oily, sooty dust, applying it carefully to his face and his hair as if it were make-up. Then he went next door to get Flora.

She was perfect. She seems to have modeled her disguise after whichever of her brothers was most likely to fall out of trees and into the mud. She had even given herself a second bruise, what might have been the beginnings of a shiner, and he wondered what she'd done it with. It was a very convincing job.

She looked at him, her eyes bright with surprise and something that he hoped was admiration. "You look completely different," she said.

"You'll do just fine," he said with a nod. "Let's go!"

He was nervous at first, afraid that she would forget herself and say something, but she didn't. The only contribution she made to the conversations they had was the occasional nod or shake of her head when someone was on the right or wrong track.

The problem was that they picked up a lead. A Michael Shepherd had been staying in the doss houses, and had been seen lingering near St. Mary's church. He was described as being too thin, too pale, and too quiet, but it was impossible to tell from that if he was a Demon or simply broken. One could appear much the same as the other.

After lunch, they went to Cannon Street. The front of the church was nestled in with the shops, and the street was full of carriages and pedestrians. Anyone could lose themselves here, especially a Demon, but Allen's eye was still.

"Oh, now isn't this peculiar?" Flora mused softly as they turned up Castle Street to take a look at the back of the church.

"What?" Allen asked.

"My Mum, she used to talk about going to church as a girl and being able to see the castle as they walked home. Well, look." She pointed. "That's it. That's Dover Castle. This must have been the way she went."

The hair on Allen's arms prickled. "Um…Flora?"

"What?"

"Maybe we should go back to the inn for the day."

"Why?"

He had no sensible answer for her, and knew her well enough to know that she would see through and reject any excuse he gave. He would have to stick to the truth without telling the whole truth. "Maybe he's here, but it might be easier to try the doss houses at night. He's probably not staying in one place very long during the day or they'd arrest him for loitering."

"Maybe," she said, "but I think St. Mary's must have been my Mum's old church from when she was a girl. Please, Allen, since we're here, I'd like to see it. It will only take a minute, and I might never get another chance."

Allen's misgivings only intensified, but he had no reason to refuse. The only thing he could do was stick close and hope for the best. "All right."

They turned onto Church Street, approaching the chancel, and Allen barely noticed the stonework, spires and stained glass. There were too many trees, too many alcoves, too many gravestones, too many shadows, too many places for a person or a Demon to hide.

"It was the only thing about Dover she ever talked about," Flora said softly. "I never met my grandparents, or my aunts or uncles, but she talked about the church. I think she was happy here. She didn't seem to care for the village church, but sometimes on Sunday mornings as we were walking home, she'd tell us about being able to see the castle. I think this place must have been special to her."

There was a figure standing in the cemetery, and even before his eye whirled to life, Allen's stomach clenched with dread. A second later, he found himself gazing at the bound, chained figure of a woman who looked very much like the girl beside him.

Flora gasped and moved forward, even as the thing moved towards them. "Dad?"

Allen grabbed her and pulled her behind him. "Flora, get down and close your eyes!" he yelled, activating his arm.

She didn't, of course, but she was frozen with shock as what she thought was her father began to shift into the form of a monster. Then she screamed, also understandable, but it made what Allen had to do even harder. He was going to have to tear this thing apart in front of her. God only knew what she'd think of him afterward, but he did it anyway, the weapon flaring with joy as his claws caught on metal, tearing towards the chain.

Something pinged off its body, and it redirected its gaze from him to Flora. "No," he said reaching deeper into the machine. "That's your daughter. You don't want to do that."

Was the look of horror on the Demon's face because of what it was about to do, or because they always looked like that? The guns clicked, loading, then Allen's claw caught, his fist closing over the links, crushing them as his grip tightened and he gave a hard jerk. At least this would be over quickly. The soul began to float free, and Allen pulled Flora against his chest, shielding them both with his arm as the mechanical body exploded.

* * *

**Notes, part 2**

Sammi, thank you. I wanted to give Allen something he really, truly couldn't handle. A pregnant woman and subsequent newborn struck me as the most likely candidates.

HikariNoTenshi-San, hello and thank you! I'm glad you liked it. Wish this chapter hadn't taken me so long.

Animefreak114, Thank you. Telling me that I write Allen well is like feeding my writer/fangirl brain a pound of chocolate. I love DGM's world and its characters, and I'm glad my characters don't seem like intruders. Now for my confession: I did try professional writing, and haven't gotten very far with it. I know a few things I do wrong, but not everything, and I know of at least one thing I can't fix, so I'm not sure there's much hope, but thank you. It's something I love and I wish I could do it that well.

Sedentary Wordsmith, um…well…genius of hard work is Rock Lee from Naruto, and it pretty much nails me. I don't have ninja powers, but I had good teachers. I'm glad you liked Charlotte. I was afraid that because she didn't love her baby, she would be unsympathetic. Something most people don't usually consider is the fact that many abusive parents love their children very much, which is why I wonder if the love between parent and child may be the most conditional of all-and that may be one of my most terrible heresies. Because of that, though, I think going into motherhood with some doubt is a good thing. Sometimes doubt is what makes us pay attention and try to correct mistakes.

GreenGreyBlue, thank you so much for leaving a review even though you weren't really in the mood. This story seems to have become a dumping ground for taboo topics, or at least things I have wanted to write about but couldn't think of anyplace to put them, so I ended up inflicting them on poor Allen.

Pichicha123, hello and thank you.


	12. The Child Born on the Sabbath Day

**Author's notes:** As with Chapter 4, not so much finished as rewritten into the ground. It refers to the Lost Fragment of Snow, so there are spoiler/confusion warnings.

* * *

**The Child Born on the Sabbath Day**

People in the street started running and screaming, and a door slammed not far from them. "Oy!" shouted a voice. "You two there! Stop!"

Damn! Allen grabbed Flora's wrist and ran for it, hoping she could pull it together enough to run before the irate figure in the flowing black cassock caught up with them. To his relief, she did, shaking off his grip and dashing through the panicked crowd just as she had when she picked his pocked, two more refugees going in one direction while police constables went in the other, shouting for order and answers they wouldn't get. He stayed just behind her, to make sure she was all right, but she didn't slow down until they reached the edges of the chaos, then she leaned against a wall for a minute, clutching her side.

"Are you all right," Allen asked.

"Yes," she said, but one look at her face told him it was a lie. She was pale and there were tears streaming down her cheeks.

"We need to walk," he said, "just until we get to the inn. Then you can lie down. Will you make it."

She nodded, and he saw her steel herself, pushing off the wall with an effort of raw will. "Yes."

He didn't try to talk to her on the way, and she said nothing to him, just walked, her hand pressed to her abdomen. When they finally reached the inn, he took Flora up to her room, glad for her disguise because he could close the door without any implied impropriety. "It's all right," he said. "You're safe. It's all right."

"Was that what you were born to fight?" she asked, sitting on the bed and sobbing. "What was it? I thought it was my Dad!"

"That was a Demon," Allen said, and he began to explain.

"Why would someone do that?" she asked when he finished, tears streaming down her cheeks and both hands clenched into fists. "Why would someone make Demons out of the dead? Don't people suffer enough in life? Why chain them like that and make them kill? It's horrible!"

"I know," Allen said. "I'm going to stop him, I promise."

Flora leaned against his chest and cried. He was glad she couldn't see that he was crying, too.

After a while, she let out a shuddering sigh that reminded him of her mother's soul, then something dropped from her hand, a small rock. He remembered those pings of something hitting the Demon and shifted to look at her. "Were you throwing things at it?"

Her lip tightened. "Yes. I thought it had eaten my Dad and was going to eat you."

"Flora, you idiot! Only a weapon like mine can hurt them."

"Well, how was I supposed to know! You didn't tell me." She slumped against him as if finally defeated. "You knew what happened to my Dad, didn't you. You knew from the start."

It wasn't a question, it was an accusation, and it was right on the mark. "I knew it was possible."

"But you didn't tell me, and we wasted time."

"How?"

"Because I was looking for my father, not my mother's soul! Those are two different things, Allen. All of the places we went were places where my father would go, but if I had known we were looking for my mother, I would have looked for the church right away. I told you I was going to be cross with you, and I am," she said, her voice more sad than angry. "I wish people would trust me."

"I did trust you," he said. "I just know how awful it is, and I didn't think that was something you should have to know about. I'm sorry you had to see it. It's a kind of evil no one should ever have to see."

"Maybe I didn't know about the Earl," she said, "but I already know about demons."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a long story."

"You can tell me," he said.

"It's probably easier if I start by showing you." She began to unbutton her shirt.

"Wait!" Allen said, feeling his cheeks burn. He had no idea what she was doing, but removing her shirt seemed excessive.

"Don't worry," she said, and he saw the strips of linen she'd used to bind her breasts. Apparently, she considered them sufficient for modesty, although they didn't so much concealed those curves as attempt to contain them.

Then she sat up straight, undoing the last few buttons, and as she pulled her shirt away, he saw the angry red channel of a scar that started somewhere above the wrappings and stretched down below her belt. Someone had tried to disembowel her.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"There was a series of murders in the village," she said. "A maniac, they said later, but at the time there was only one person killed. A woman was found dead in her home, strangled, her body sliced open. Her husband was nowhere to be found. Everyone assumed they'd gotten into a fight and things got out of hand, so no one thought there was any danger. Two days later, I was walking home with my baby sister, and we were attacked. I was left for dead." Her voice caught. "My sister was stabbed seventeen times."

"Oh my God!" Allen said, feeling the blood drain from his face. How much did she remember? And did it really matter? Was this the sort of thing where the horror would be diminished by forgetting?

"Three more people died before it stopped," she said as she buttoned her shirt, "all women."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen," she said. "The baby was eighteen months, just old enough to be walking. To make matters worse, there wasn't a man in the village who didn't believe I'd been…" She hesitated, looking at Allen apprehensively. "They were talking about what happened in Whitechapel, how this was just the same, and everyone knew what those women were."

"But you were only thirteen!" Allen said, appalled.

"I already looked like a woman at thirteen. When that happens, you get a reputation whether you deserve it or not, and with such a sordid attack, that was pretty much the end of mine."

"Flora…!" he began, but he had nothing to say, no comfort to offer. He knew better than most that what people believed was more important than the truth. It was a tendency he exploited regularly and still had to fight to keep from succumbing to himself, a fight he had lost with Flora. He had assumed that a village girl wouldn't understand how dangerous the world could be, when in fact he had forgotten that villages were part of the same world.

"It's all right," she said. "It doesn't matter anyway. Even if I could have children safely, by the time Martin grows up, I'll be too old to marry. My reputation doesn't matter anymore." She wiped despondently at her face.

"Flora, I'm so sorry," he said, knowing how horribly inadequate that was. "Did they ever catch him?"

"No. At first they thought it was the husband. He was a cheat and a brawler, but he turned up in another village. He knew what they'd think, so he made a run for it as soon as he found his wife dead. The killings stopped by themselves. Of course, the rumors didn't."

Just like Whitechapel, Allen thought. It probably wasn't the same man, but it was the same kind of rage, compulsion and utter indifference to the humanity of the victims, not just on the part of the killer, but on the part of the investigators and the community as well. Flora's attacker would face the noose if he was caught, but it would be like putting down a mad dog, and everyone knew what drove men mad.

Flora knew all about demons, all right, only instead of inhabiting the bodies of the dead, hers were in the bodies of the living, where no Exorcist could touch them. "Are you ready to go home?" he asked. "Can you?" Was she ready to face a village full of lascivious contempt?

"I have to," she said. "My little brothers need me. The next train leaves tomorrow morning, and I'm going to be on it."

"Do you have enough money for a ticket?"

"No, but I will by tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

Flora reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bracelet. "This should cover it."

"Flora! When did you do that?" He hadn't seen a thing. "I told you to stop!"

"I didn't agree," she said. "I won't add to your burdens, not even in this little way. Anyway, this is the last thing I'll steal, except for fun. I hope someday you no longer have a reason to play poker except for fun. Thank you, Allen."

"For what?"

"For releasing my mother, so she could go back to Heaven, where she belongs. I'm sorry about your father, and I understand. I think the only reason I didn't turn my sister into a Demon was because I was never left alone. Every time I woke up, Mum or the little boys were with me. They said that Ivy confused the killer, slowed him down, and that was why he botched it. My baby sister gave her life for me." New tears ran down Flora's cheeks. "I felt so guilty. If someone had offered to bring her back, I would have said yes."

"Flora, you can't blame yourself," he said, knowing how futile this kind of reassurance was. "There was nothing you could have done."

"But that's just it," Flora said. "There was nothing I could do. He was so much bigger than me, and it was all so sudden. And it was her last day on earth. We could have had so much more fun, but all I was thinking was that minding Ivy was better than helping Mum make pickles, so my heart wasn't in it. I would never have that whole day with her like that again, when she was so little that a frog was something new and special, but I didn't realize it until she died. And then I had to go and mess up with Dad. Why is it so hard for me to learn? Why do I have to make the same mistakes over and over?"

Her misery was so intense that her sobs curled her into a ball, and Allen pulled her against him again. "Flora, it's not your fault. It's not your fault."

"Yes it was!" She could barely speak. "We left him alone, Allen. He was…he wasn't a kind man, and after Mum died he was even worse, but…our poor Mum! If he ever loved her, he never said, not where we could hear. To find out that he cared for her in such a horrible way…it's worse than if he never cared at all. At least then, she would have been left in peace."

"I know," he said, stroking her hair. "I know." This was why he never wanted to be loved. He knew what the world looked like through the eyes of a Demon. To see that every minute of every day, with his will consumed by that of the Millennium Earl, was something he would pay any price to avoid.

Yet at the same time, he was holding this girl because the instinct to reach out was so strong. All he'd ever wanted to do since he met her was protect her, and even though he'd done a poor job of it, she didn't seem to be holding it against him. It didn't help that he liked her. Her stubbornness and cleverness could be frustrating sometimes, but he'd also come to rely on them, and all of this combined with how pretty and soft she was could very easily turn into something dangerous.

_Why worry about it? _said an all-too-familiar voice in his head._ You're leaving tomorrow anyway._

_That's inhuman even for you,_ Allen thought. _You saw that scar. It could kill her._

_That's why you don't think about these things. If you don't know, it's not your problem._

The effect was like a bucket of cold water in his lap, and when she finally quieted, he let her go, reaching into his pocket for his golem. "You should probably lie down for a while. Shall I leave Tim with you?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, and she curled up on her side with one last sigh.

He dumped Tim into her hands, and the golem settled there, stretching his wings and tail as Flora stroked his side. "I like Tim," she said. "I wish I could keep him."

Flora had been spoiling Tim outrageously. "I think he wishes you could keep him, too," Allen said. "I'm sorry. I should have told you what I was looking for from the start."

"No, I'm sorry," she said, and somewhere from the depths of pain and grief, she drew out a smile that went through him like hot cocoa. "I didn't tell you everything, either, but I didn't want you to look at me the way the others did. Are we quits?"

"Yeah." He smiled back. "We're quits."

"You know," she said, "you remind me a little of my Mum."

"How so?" he asked.

"You haven't had an easy time of it, but you can still smile. You don't go around bullying people or scowling."

"You do that, too. You smile. That's why I didn't tell you about the Demons. I didn't want you to lose that."

"I got it from my Mum," she said. "It's not something I can ever lose. Where did you get yours?"

"My father was a clown. We had an act together for a while, and I learned to smile when I performed. I think it just carried over into other things." Other performances.

"You're a clown?" Her eyes lit up. "So that's what you really do?"

Allen smiled. "It's the most respectable thing I do, and that's not saying much. Did you see the circus?"

"Yes. I loved the clowns. One of them even had a dog." She laughed a little. "I begged my parents for a dog for weeks after that, not a sheepdog but a dog like the circus dog, one that could learn tricks. Probably a good thing they didn't listen!"

Allen's heart skipped a beat? Had that been Mana? Because that was Mana's original act, a man and his dog. "How old were you?"

"I was six, and I just loved it. Really, I wanted to be a clown myself, but of course girls can't. It's why I started stealing. One of the clowns played tricks on people, taking things without them knowing about it and then giving them back, and I wanted to learn how. I used to practice on my younger brothers and my Mum, until I got so good that Mum didn't have to pretend not to catch me anymore. I used to practice on Rhys, too, but I didn't tell him." She grinned. "He's not as absent-minded as he thinks he is."

It could have been Mana, but it could have been many others, too. He was indulging in wishful thinking, and he knew it. "You should have learned to juggle instead," he said.

"I did, and I tried tumbling, although I never got very good at it," she said. "I wouldn't have been much of a clown after all. It's funny, though, that of all things, you turned out to be a clown. I can't be one, but at least I had a chance to meet one."

Her eyes were swollen, her face was blotchy and her voice was beginning to drift. Tim was cuddled up in her collar, his tail wrapped around her neck, and Allen was briefly, wistfully jealous. He leaned down and kissed her forehead before he rose. "You would have made a very good clown," he said. "Do you want some tea?"

"No, I'm all right now. I think I just need some rest."

"About tomorrow," he said. "Please let me see you home."

"You've done enough for me," she said. "You don't have to do this, too."

He didn't know how to explain to her that her brothers would probably be a lot happier if they thought someone had been looking out for her, although it was an even bet as to who had been looking out for whom. "I'll sleep better if I know you're safe."

She laughed. "It's not as if you could sleep any worse!"

"Flora!" he said. Already, she knew him too well.

She smiled. "Heaven forbid that I gave you any more nightmares than you already have! I only wish I could help you the way you helped me."

"You did." She'd led him to his Demon, even though he'd been fighting her every step of the way. "Thank you."

He went to his room, where he cleaned up and changed, transforming himself into the gentleman Mana had taught him to be before going back to St. Mary's Church. The constable standing guard would have run him off had he come in the clothes he wore earlier, but dressed like this, he got through with an exchange of nods. He tried to remember where the Demon had been, but everything had happened so fast that he couldn't be sure. He looked around, but if there were clues, he didn't recognize them. He knew nothing about these people, not Flora's father nor her mother.

What made the difference, he wondered, between how one person and another responded to pain? He didn't know. As far as he was concerned, pain inflicted on him made him angry and resentful, even vengeful if he wasn't careful. That's what he'd been like before Mana, who was the first person he'd ever seriously hurt.

Mana, though, was different. Allen was sure he had never hurt anyone, although with the way Mana's mind had wandered, it was hard to tell. There might have been something in his past, but Allen was hard-pressed to imagine what it could be. The only thing Mana had ever talked about was the younger brother he couldn't find, and because Mana had believed he was seventeen when he and Allen met, that brother must have gone missing many years before, and was most likely long dead. Allen could not imagine how that could possibly be Mana's fault.

If he reminded Flora of her mother, Flora reminded Allen of his father, both of them haunted what happened to those they loved. Like a lot of pranksters, she had a malicious streak, but she seemed to keep it under control, turning her taste for mischief into play. She also had an iron will. With that scar, it must have hurt so much for her to run like that, and she'd done it without a word of complaint.

Then there was Flora's mother, whose smile Flora had chosen as her inheritance. The marriage was no love match, so why had her mother left Dover for a sheep farm? And why had she come back? Had she come home out of instinct? Or was it possible that when she became a living weapon, her damaged soul grabbed at the chance for revenge?

He read the headstones, then walked around the church, but there was nothing. When he left, he was no wiser than he had been when he arrived.

When he got back to the inn, he found Flora in her room making string figures for Timcanpy, who bounced and tugged on them. Allen had never seen them before, and when he told her that, she insisted on teaching him to play Scratch Cradle before they went down for supper.

That night when he woke to her singing, he lay still with his eyes closed, letting the dream dissolve in her voice and in the warmth of her fingers in his hair. By the time she kissed his forehead and tiptoed out, his pillow was damp with tears.

The next morning, she was remarkably subdued and she stayed that way until they boarded the train. Once they were underway, she smiled at him, an expression so sad that he thought his heart would break. "Can I have Tim? Just for a minute?"

"Of course." He reached into his pocket and fished out Timcanpy, who allowed himself to be dumped into Flora's hands.

She kissed the little golem, then sent him fluttering back to Allen, who could have sworn that Tim was a bit pinker than usual. "Exorcists can fight Demons, but regular people are the ones who have to fight the Earl," she said. "Maybe I lost with my Dad, but I won't lose to him again, so no matter where you are, I'll always be fighting with you. Remember that."

"Flora, you didn't lose," Allen assured her. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was!" The flash of rage in her eyes was as unexpected as it was strong. "The Earl came into my house and turned my Mum into a Demon, right under my nose. If I had known sooner, I could have stopped it."

"Flora!" Her tendency to take responsibility for everything that happened around her was going to get her seriously hurt, if not killed. "You can't stop the Earl."

"Yes, I can!" Her lip tightened. "It only worked because my Dad felt so alone after Mum died. We thought he didn't care about us, or Mum either, but that was no excuse. We were selfish, Allen. We abandoned him, and that's why the Earl came."

In the quiet moments after his nightmares, Allen could almost begin to face the fact that it was more than his grief that had turned Mana into a Demon.

"You have to have a proper weapon to fight the Demons that already exist," she said. "I understand that, but you don't have to have a weapon to stay with someone when they're grieving, and the Earl won't have it so easy then! As long as there are Demons, there will have to be Exorcists, but there's no reason for the rest of us to allow more Demons to be made. This isn't just your battle. It's mine, too, and I will fight."

He remembered the sound of rocks striking the Demon's skin, and swallowed hard. She really would fight, and it would be all the more dangerous for the fact that she had picked up an effective weapon this time.

"And I already know that you cry a lot for a boy, so you don't have to try to hide it."

"Flora," he said, "I'm perfectly fine.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you are! Not that your eyes are red or anything."

"Flora!" His sorrow got lost in indignation.

"You just don't like it that I can see through your tricks," she laughed.

Of course she could, but her repertoire was awfully similar to his own, which gave him an idea. Some things could be learned by watching, especially if one had a good eye for things that most people overlooked. Others, however, had to be taught. Those things were handed down very carefully from master to student, but as far as he was concerned, she had earned the right to learn them. He took out his deck, and spent the rest of the trip teaching her card tricks.

The village train station was just a ticket office and a platform with a single, deserted bench, the sort of place the train only stopped if someone needed it to. As they walked past houses, shops and a small, stone church, people looked at Flora as if they recognized her but couldn't place her, and Allen wasn't surprised that she didn't say anything to anyone. Being dressed as a boy in the company of a stranger wouldn't do what was left of her reputation any good.

They left the village and walked walked past sun-warmed fields dotted with grazing animals contained behind fences and hedgerows. A horse trotted down the road, big and bred for hard work, much like its rider. The dry dirt crunched under their shoes, and some of the larger pebbles just begged to be kicked. It was the air that was difficult, filled with the smell of manure and the buzz of insects, most of which were minding their own business but some of which might be inclined to sting. The wildflowers by the roadside appeared to be doing a brisk business in pollen for the local beekeeper.

Allen wondered if Flora had been attacked along this very road.

"Look there," Flora said, pointing at a collection of white shapes on a gentle hillside. "Those are our sheep." Something in her tone made Allen turn to look at her. Her lip was set, as if she was bracing for something.

There was a cluster of thatched buildings just up ahead, and near one of them was a figure in the sheep pens, tall but bent over, pulling something out of the wool of an indignant ewe. "That's Rhys," Flora said, and in her face there was no pleasure or even relief, only resignation.

They were right behind him before Flora spoke. "I'm home, Rhys."

"Flora!" He vaulted over the fence, grabbed Flora and hugged her so hard Allen thought she'd pass out. "Flora! Oh, God we thought you were dead! Where have you been, what in blazes are you doing dressed like that? What have you done to your hair?" His eyes went to Allen. "And who are you?"

Allen offered his hand. "Allen Walker. I met Flora in Dover, and thought I'd escort her home."

"That was kind of you," Rhys said, although his eyes were wary.

"Stop it, Rhys!" Flora said. "Just stop it! He didn't do anything improper and it's not his fault I'm dressed like this."

Allen concealed a frown. That was an awfully strong reaction to what he thought was a natural concern.

"I didn't think it was," Rhys said, turning his attention to his sister, tears rolling down his cheeks as he grabbed her shoulders. "It's the sort of hare-brained scheme you'd come up with yourself. What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how worried we've been? We thought we'd lost you, too!"

"I told you," Flora said. "I just wanted to get Dad. Stop shaking me!"

"You scared the life out of us!" He gave Allen an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry." He held out his hand. "Rhys Shepherd."

"Allen Walker," Allen said again.

"Thank you for bringing her home. I hope she hasn't been too much trouble."

Allen laughed. Flora had been trouble, all right, but well worth it in the end. "No, she's been no trouble at all."

Rhys rolled his eyes. "I'll believe it when I see my sheep fly to the moon! She's been nothing but trouble since the day she learned to walk. Come in, I'll make us a pot of tea. Flora, you run get Andy and Martin. Mrs. Tanner is looking after them."

"Um…Rhys?" she said, and Allen knew what was coming next.

"What?"

"Dad's dead."

Rhys stiffened. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw him myself. Allen helped me find him."

Rhys looked at Allen, who nodded, then he looked back at his sister, shaking his head. "I wish you hadn't seen that."

Her lip tightened in a look Allen knew well. "I'm glad I did. At least now we know."

Rhys shook his head. "You little fool! Go get your bothers, and for God's sake put a dress on!"

Flora looked from Rhys to Allen, uncertain.

"It's all right," Rhys said to Flora, an odd plea in his voice, as if he was coaxing a frightened horse. "I'm not going to start anything. I'm just going to make us some tea. That's all, I promise."

Flora didn't want to leave Allen alone with her brother, and Allen wondered why. "Go ahead," he said. "I know how much you missed them."

Flora nodded. "Well, if he starts anything, don't hold back on my account."

Now what the devil was that about? Allen wondered. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll be fine."

"All right then," she said. "I'll be right back." And she ran for the house.

"I'm sorry for that," Rhys said as they walked toward a pump between the house and the barn. "Thank you again for bringing her home. How did you find her?"

"She picked my pocket," Allen said.

"She…" Rhys groaned. "I'm so sorry! She's lucky you didn't beat her black and blue."

"There was no reason to," Allen said. "She gave back what she took."

"What was she thinking, that she could just live in Dover dressed like a boy, picking people's pockets?"

That was exactly what she'd been doing, but Allen saw no need to say so. "She just wanted to find your father."

Rhys sighed. "I told her that it was a fool's errand, but she wouldn't listen." He stopped to draw a bucket of water, which he took to a tiny shed near the back door of the cottage where the family kept gardening tools. There, he sat on an iron chair and started washing up, using a bar of soap that was kept on a shelf.

"What happened to my Dad?" Rhys asked as he rolled the gray-brown soap over and over in his hands before spreading the lather to his elbows. He looked not merely old for his age but as if he had aged very suddenly, as if the strain of the last few weeks had been more than he could bear.

"An accident. We couldn't bring his body home. I'm sorry."

"No," Rhys shook his head. "No, don't apologize. You did more than enough. I'm grateful." He blew out his breath, splashing water over his arms. "I guess I knew, at least I knew it was likely. I knew we'd never see him again." He soaped his hands and arms a second time. "Could you talk to the parish priest, let him know so we can have a funeral?"

"I'd be happy to." Allen heard the front door slam, and wondered what Flora would look like when she returned.

"Thank you. And thank you for bringing Flora back" Rhys said before splashing water on his face and reaching for a towel on a hook. "Listen, did anything happen to her?"

A lot had happened to her, but Rhys was interested in one thing. "No. She's fine."

"Thank God!" Rhys dumped the water over a neglected herb garden. "Let's have some tea."

The house looked like it was in desperate need of female attention. There were clothes thrown over chairs, books and toys left on the table, dirty dishes in the washbasin and dust on everything not in daily use. The stove looked like things had been burned on it. Rhys pulled out a chair for Allen, then poked the stove back to life before adding more wood, filling the kettle and lifting one of the stove lids to put the kettle directly over the flame.

"I'm surprised you were able to bring her back," Rhys said as he rinsed out an old teapot that had been broken some time ago and repaired with staples.

"She didn't really run away," Allen assured him. "She fully intended to bring your father home."

Rhys spooned tea into the pot. "She left me a note, but I didn't believe it. I thought she'd run off, and I didn't blame her."

So Flora still hadn't told him everything. "Why not?"

"How much did she tell you about herself?" Rhys asked as he sat down.

"She told me she was attacked when she was thirteen," Allen said.

"Did she tell you what happened after that?"

She had told him a little bit, but Allen wanted to hear it from Rhys. "No," he said.

"Well, the only reason our father didn't beat her within an inch of her life was because she was already almost dead. Once she recovered, he pulled her out of school and all but locked her in the house. I won't repeat the names he called her."

"So he thought she'd been…"

Rhys nodded. "Actually, it was worse than that. He thought she'd been attacked by a lover, the husband of the first victim. He assumed that the motive was jealousy, that she wasn't just sleeping with a married man but that she was cheating on him to boot."

Allen's heart sank. No wonder the village had turned against her! Her own father had set the example. "So why did she try so hard to bring him back?"

"That was my fault," Rhys said, not looking Allen in the eye. "I thought that Dad knew best, so when he died, I treated her just the same. If anything, I came down even harder. I didn't want her running wild, and I thought the only thing stopping her was Dad. She just went about her business, smiling like she didn't have a care in the world and ignoring me as much as she could. It made me furious. She would never dare treat Dad that way, and I thought she shouldn't be treating me that way either."

Rhys's gaze went to the window, not so much looking out at the lane but looking into the past. "The day before she left, Martin had been crying, over Mum I guess. I didn't know that though, and when I came in, Flora was sitting with him reading a book, and there was no supper on the table. I lost my temper. I told her that just because Dad was dead, it didn't mean that she could shirk her duties, and if it happened again, I would throw her out. I don't think I would have, mind you, I just wanted to make a point. She tried to explain, but all I heard was excuses." He sat there, staring at nothing. "I hit her. I hit her so hard that she fell, and I'll be honest with you it wouldn't have stopped there except that Martin grabbed me. I shook him off, threw him across the room, really, and he hit his head on a chair. The look Flora gave me…I'll never forget it. She told me I was worse than Dad, and she was going to Dover to bring him back. The next morning she was gone."

Allen felt miserably guilty. He had pushed her so hard to go home, not realizing what he was telling her to go home to. Then again, where else did she have to go?

"If she had come back the next day," Rhys said, "I probably would have thrashed her, to teach her a lesson, but while she was gone, I went through Dad's things. It was something I had to do after he left, and I didn't expect to find anything special, but in his desk there was a collection of notes, from women, not even love notes, mind you, but the most miserable pleading I ever read." He glanced briefly at Allen. "You have to understand. Our Dad was considered a good man, strict, but well respected, so the affairs themselves had me floored, but that wasn't all. One of those notes was from a girl I knew, a classmate of mine, a girl who filled out early, like Flora. She fell pregnant when she was barely sixteen, and you know what we used to say. No better than she should be. She was sent away, of course, and I don't know what became of her. She never named the father, and now I know it was my own Dad."

Allen heard Rhys's voice catch on suppressed tears. "He had no right to accuse Flora, no right to even suspect her. The one who was in the wrong was him, but I didn't know until it was too late. I thought I had driven her to become what we accused her of being, and with that wound, it would kill her. I don't know what to do now. I can't just say sorry and expect her to let it go." Rhys raised his head, finally looking squarely. "If you want to hit me for her, go ahead."

It was a tempting offer. Part of Allen hated Rhys for hitting Flora, but part of him knew that he was in no position to criticize. He knew how hard it was to face a terrible wrong and try to make it right. "That would be letting you off easy," he said.

"I know," Rhys said, "but I think I'd rather take my lumps and get it over with." He finally looked seventeen, a haggard seventeen, but seventeen all the same. "I know I'll probably go straight to hell for this, but I'm glad Dad's dead. I'm glad he's dead, because his lies died with him. I just hope I can make it up to Flora somehow, but I don't see how I can."

It was strange, Allen thought, that in killing her father, the Earl had done the best thing for Flora that anyone possibly could. Such affairs were the kind of secrets men took to their graves, and the sooner men like that went to their graves, the sooner those they hurt could find peace. "I hurt someone once," Allen said, "and you can't go back and change it no matter how much you want to. You just have to keep moving forward."

The kettle whistled, and Rhys jumped up to fill the pot before refilling the kettle and setting it back on. "Mum used to say something," Rhys said as he got cups out of the cupboards, five of them, and set out cream and sugar. "She said that sometimes you get what you want, sometimes you mend what you must, and sometimes you go without, but no matter what, you should always look for a reason to be happy. I always thought it meant she was weak-minded, no better mentally than a child. I thought that was why Dad was strict with her, and Flora, too, and then when Flora tried to stand up to me, I hit her. Flora left, but Mum couldn't, not without leaving us behind, so she made the best of what she had. Thank you," he said to Allen, "for bringing Flora back. I don't know what you said or did, but thank you."

"I didn't say anything," Allen said. "She came home when she was ready."

"She never listens," Rhys sighed. "I wish she was less willful. It would make things easier."

Allen had wished the same thing more than once. Hearing it from her brother showed him how futile, even mean, it really was. "Flora's willful, but she's clever," he said. "I had some business to take care of in Dover and she was a big help to me."

"She was a help me, too, and I didn't know it until she was gone. It's why we got no biscuits. The boys won't eat store-bought ones and Flora's the only one who can cook." Rhys wiped at his face with his hand. "I can't believe I thought she and Mum had it easy! I can't cook, I can't clean, I can't make the boys mind, and I had no idea how much it costs to run the house. We're running out of soap. She's been setting the fat and ashes aside, but I don't know what to do with them, and the stuff at the store is made for women's faces, not a farmer's hands. Only five days, and this place is falling apart."

Allen was about to reply when the door burst open and Flora came in, wearing a dark blue skirt, a blue and lavender striped waist, and a plain straw hat, followed by two young boys. All three were in tears, and the younger boy clung hard to Flora's hand. Here, Allen realized, was Flora's family, her little brothers. Two years ago, they would have been too young to understand what a whore was, never mind why their sister was being called bad names after she'd been hurt. These two, in their innocence, were her only champions, and it was these two she in turn had fought so hard for.

She led them to Allen, who had to smack himself mentally to get his attention where it was supposed to be. Boys' clothes had not done her figure justice. "Allen, these are my brothers, Andy and Martin. Boys, this is Allen Walker."

Andy offered his hand, his chin trembling, while Martin stared at the floor. "Thank you," he said, "for bringing Flora back."

"I was glad to." Allen shook Andy's hand and reached into his pocket, palming a coin.

"Martin?" Andy hissed, elbowing his little brother.

"Thank you," Martin whispered.

Allen frowned as he looked pointedly at the side of Martin's head. "What's this?"

"What?" Martin asked, putting his hand to his ear.

He reached behind Martin's other ear, producing a penny and setting it into the little boy's palm. "Trying to hide this from your sister? I don't blame you. She steals like a magpie."

"You're a magician!" Andy said while Martin stared at the penny, and then at Allen, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"He's not a magician," Flora said, smiling. "He's a clown." Then her voice grew stern. "Now you two, just look at the state of this place!" She gestured toward the living room. "There will be no biscuits until you've put everything away!" The boys ran to pick up their belongings, and Flora looked at Rhys with an expression that was part fear, part resolve and part something that might have been defiance had she let more of it out, but she wasn't going to. She had made up her mind and she would stick to it no matter what, holding onto her mother's smile with all her strength. "I suppose I'd better start washing up."

"No," Rhys said. "I'll do it. Sounds like you promised them biscuits, so you get a start on those."

She looked at Rhys, frowning, as if uncertain what to make of this, then she took a deep breath. "All right then."

She tied on a worn but clean apron, got out a mixing bowl, and sent Andy out to the henhouse as she pried Martin's arms from around her waist, telling him firmly that if he wanted biscuits to go with his tea, he needed to sit down and let her work. When Andy came back, she juggled the eggs before cracking them into the bowl, with a proficiency that made Allen's smile. She had become her own kind of clown, turning an everyday thing like making biscuits into an act that made her little brothers laugh until they forgot all about how frightened they had been.

Allen glanced at Rhys and saw a series of emotions flicker across his face, impatience, anger, contrition, confusion. However sorry he might be, he still didn't care for Flora's playfulness. Perhaps it would have been better if Allen had paid Rhys back for what he did to her, but Allen wouldn't be around to keep watch on them. Somehow, Rhys would have to learn to keep watch on himself, and it was better that the sense of debt remained. Allen just hoped there was no worse damage done in the meantime.

The next few hours passed in a flurry of activity. After tea, with biscuits so good that Allen burned his tongue on one, he and Rhys went down to the vicarage so that an official record could be made of Michael Shepherd's death. Then came the inevitable offers to spend the night, which he firmly declined. He needed to keep moving, and the last train out that day was heading in the right direction.

He shook hands with Rhys, then with the younger boys, but when Flora's turn came, she threw herself into his arms. "Take care, Allen. Thank you for everything," she said loudly enough for everyone to hear, then she turned her head slightly and whispered to him, her lips brushing his ear. "You're not fighting alone. Remember that."

"Thank you," he said. "For everything," he whispered, holding her tighter, reveling for a little while in the feel of her body in his arms. Then he let her go, into the care of her brothers, hoping they could keep it together somehow. With their father dead, they might have a chance.

He watched out the window of the train as the countryside rolled by. This was the England people thought of when they thought of England, peaceful, bucolic, but other places looked this way from the window of a train, too. It was when he walked that he could see the lives lived in those cottages and gardens, how pain ran through the world like blood through veins.

His life before Mana was like being enclosed in a train car, looking only at the surface of the world and his own reflection in the glass, unaware of anything else. He hadn't felt anything but his own hurt and anger.

It was as if he was born on that awful Christmas, as if he'd drawn breath for the first time, the air cold and sharp in his newly-inflated lungs. He was finally able to smell and taste, his ears filling with new sounds and his eyes with new light, but for the first time he had really looked upon the face of another, and saw how much harm he was capable of.

He didn't realize he was trying to fidget with his tie until he noticed it was gone. He patted frantically at his neck for a moment, then laughed. She really was good. He knew when she must have done it, but he hadn't felt a thing.

Tim seemed to be laughing, too, or at least he wriggled in Allen's pocket.

Allen took him out, only to find him wrapped in the missing tie. She'd not only taken it without him noticing, she'd given it back the same way, just as a clown would.

"Did you do that on purpose?" he asked, shaking the golem a little. "You've never been stolen before. Eaten, yes, but not stolen."

The golem flew up to Allen's face, tail lashing.

_The way the tail was dangling…_

Flora had stolen Tim because his tail was showing, and she thought it was a carelessly-kept watch.

"I'll be damned!" Allen said softly. "You did do it on purpose. How did you know? How could you possibly know?"

Tim landed on his shoulder, his posture reminding Allen of a preening bird.

"Or did you just fancy her? Well, that kiss is all you're getting. You know that, right?"

Tim flicked his wings.

Allen sighed as he leaned his head against the window. She might be able to keep others from being turned into Demons as long as she was alive, but what would happen when she died? Someone was bound to want her back, and the Earl would enjoy that, turning the girl who declared war on him into a Demon.

"He can't have her," Allen said to Tim. "He just can't. I need to stop him. Now."

Tim rolled over his cheek, pressing himself briefly to Allen's lips.

"Wait," Allen said, surprised. "So that kiss was for me?"

Tim hovered for a moment, then dove down and wormed his way back into Allen's pocket, tucking his tail in neatly as he did.

Allen poked at him. "All right, you sneaky, underhanded little wanker, let's go see Mother!"

_**The End**_

* * *

**Notes, part 2**

Sammi, poor Allen indeed! So many ways to torture a character! Anyway, I hope this last chapter wasn't a let-down. Thank you for your steady feedback.

HikariNoTenshi-San, I hope this wasn't too much of a wait. And yes, I'm that cynical!

Foxinsocks92, thank you, for all of it. I'm not sure about the Book of Vices and Virtues. I intended to end it there, because I had a feeling that getting Allen and Kanda into bed post-Alma Karma would be impossible. There is another chapter, but I'm not sure how useful it really is. It does, however, actually manage to refer to the original Book of Vices and Virtues (always meant to, but never quite did), which tempts me to make it work somehow anyway.

Pichicha123, it hasn't been easy!

Thank you, everyone, for reading.


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